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HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS 


CONTINENTAL AND ENGLISH. 


BY 


MARGARET J. PRESTON, 


AUTHOR OF ‘‘SILVERWOOD”; ‘‘ BEECHENBROOK”: ‘*OLD SONG 
AND NEW”; ‘‘CARTOONS”; ETC., ETC. 


NEW YORK: 
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 


38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET. 


®DWARD 0. JENKINS’ SONS, 


PRINTERS AND STEREOTYPERS, _ 
20 North William Street, New York. 





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CONTENTS. 


IN THE TRACK OF “THE GOLDEN LEGEND,” 


ALPENGLOW AT CHAMOUNY, =. 
A PICNIC ON THE DRACHENFELS, 

THE SKULL-CAPS OF COLOGNE, . 
THE OUBLIETTES OF CHILLON, . 
THE “ ALLEES” OF ANTWERP, : 
’S GRAVENHAGE: OUDE DOELEN, 

ST. BERNARD’S DIJON, . : fi 


THE BEST THING IN PARIS, . ; 


THE CRYPTS OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL, 


THE HEART OF ENGLAND, . : 
AN AFTERNOON AT KENILWORTH, 
A BAZAAR AT WARWICK CASTLE, 
IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF WORDSWORTH, 
AT ST. OSWALD’S, . ; . : 


A Day AT FURNESS ABBEY, . 


PAGE 


6 CONTENTS. 


AROUND GRETA HALL, . : ; ‘ 4 
THE HAUNTS OF SIR WALTER, . ; - 
AMONG OXFORD QUADRANGLES, . Les 
KING WILLIAM’S ORANGE-TREES, “ i 


THE QUAINTEST CITY IN ENGLAND, . ° 


IN THE JERUSALEM CHAMBER AND THERE- 


ABOUTS, . : : ‘ : ; F 
THE DORE GALLERY, . - : ‘ : 
NUMBER FIFTY, WIMPOLE STREET, . : 
IN CRIPPLEGATE CHURCH, . : : : 


CONCLUSIONS ABOUT DEMOCRACY IN EUROPE, 


PAGE 


143 


150 


160 


168 


220 





Peeve tiAtlONS: 


PAGE 


THE THREE SPIRES, COVENTRY, . . Frontispiece. 
THE FALLS OF THE RHINE, . : f : ‘ 9 
THE RHONE GLACIER, . : E E “ LER 
THE CASTLE OF CHILLON, . ; ; : ay 
’"S GRAVENHAGE, . : } : : : eels 
THE OLD MILL, Guy’s CLIFF, : ‘ : <i, FOO 
WRAY CASTLE, WINDERMERE, : : : AO te 
ABBOTSFORD, . ; ; ; : , ‘ IS 
ORIEL COLLEGE, OXFORD, . ; : : et kOT 
HAMPTON CourrT, . : 5 : : ; nee Ze 
CLOISTER COURT, CHESTER, . : ; PLOT 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY, . D ; 7HE19O 


PORTRAIT, Mrs. BROWNING, . : : : aya a 





IN THE TRACK OF “THE GOLDEN 
LEGEND.” 


WE were sitting in the pretty drawing-room of 
the Hotel Scheizerhof, at the Falls of the Rhine. 
As Anna laid down a copy of “The Golden 
Legend,” over which she had been poring, she 
exclaimed in her enthusiastic way: 

“What is to hinder us from realizing in our 
experience the delicious journey of Prince Henry 
and Elsie, from the Odenwald to the St. Gothard 
Pass?” 

“ Nothing easier,” said the Doctor, closing the 
volume of Taine, over which he had been bend- 
ing—“ provided you are willing so to modernize 
and vulgarize it as to substitute the iron horse 
for the palfrey, ridden by Elsie, and be content 
with such hotels as this Scheizerhof, instead of 
the severely simple accommodations that were 
furnished by the Abbess Irmingarde.” 

“T am more than ready for the exchange,” re 
plied Anna, pointing to the tessellated floor of 
the drawing-room, mosaiced in rich patterns of 
walnut, ash, and oak, and polished till it reflected 


our figures like a mirror. ‘I much prefer such 
(7) 


8 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


floors as these to the rush-strewn and rude ones 
which were furnished by Irmingarde’s convent 
cells.” 

It was accordingly arranged that we should 
take up on the morrow the track pursued by 
these medizval pilgrims, on their way to Salerno. 
This Chute du Rhin at Neuhausen is one of the 
most beautiful spots we have visited on the Con- 
tinent. As measured by our American ideas of 
a fall, it is nothing remarkable either as to the 
volume of water precipitated, or to the majesty 
of its descent. The piunge is only about eighty 
feet, but the falls are noteworthy as being the 
highest in Europe; there is no suggestion of 
grandeur about them, but their beauty is beyond 
compare. In Switzerland, the air seems to have 
a rarefied clearness, and skies of more inviolate 
blue never stretched over Italian lakes. There 
is always, too, a delicious freshness in the atmos- 
phere, which makes the step elastic, and does 
away, even to mountain-climbers, all sense of 
weariness. So we had with the Chute du Rhin 
the accompaniment of superb August days, cloud- 
less and splendid, and moonlit nights of marvel- 
lous beauty. The Rhine at this spot has extra- 
ordinary loveliness: its banks are most richly 
wooded, and the dash of the white waters con- 








af 


ie 
hae - 
amend 


“ny 





IN THE TRACK OF “THE GOLDEN LEGEND.” 9 


trasts so vividly with the intense blue of the 
sky and the emerald brilliancy of the landscape 
around, that we were never weary of watching 
the lashing of its snowy foam, and listening to 
the rich minor of its music. The grounds about 
the Hotel are one great bouquet of shrubbery 
and flowers: lines of orange, lemon, and oleander 
trees edge the long, glass-covered marble pave- 
ments: and never in any palaces have we seen 
reception-rooms with such marquetry floors. The 
fine colonnades in front are always cool and in- 
viting: the decorations of the dining-room are 
quite princely, and a whole greenhouse fills its 
centre with oriental plants that reach half-way 
to the lofty ceiling. The music of the Scheizerhof 
is one of its greatest attractions; and with the fine 
concert furnished every night, and the irradiation 
of the falls with calcium-lights, and the display 
of extensive fireworks, there was no lack of en- 
tertainment for the crowds of English and Amer- 
ican tourists that saunter up and down these 
stately colonnades. 

Our journey through the Black Forest was full 
of strange surprises: such engineering we had 
never imagined. Our train zigzagged along the 
mountain-sides in the most extraordinary way ; 
and as we looked back, and saw the tremendous 


Io A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


trestle-works we had crossed, and the trail of the 
track half a mile above us, we could hardly per- 
suade ourselves that we had just been over it all, 
the Simplon Pass seemed scarcely so wonderful. 

We were in the very track of “The Golden 
Legend,” which Ruskin styles the most perfect 
reproduction of medizval life which any modern 
writer has given to the world. We did not look 
for Prince Henry and Elsie, in “the road to Hir- 
schau.” The chemin de fer, with its stations, and 
its noise, and its smoke, was enough to dispel 
all medizval illusions; we failed to see Prince 
Henry’s cavalcade watering their horses in the 
cool ravine, and we whisked by too rapidly to 
catch a glimpse of Ursula at her spinning-wheel ! 
We passed the ruins of the old monasteries; but 
we did not hear Friar Paul singing his Gaudiolum : 

** Ave! color vini clari, 
Dulcis potus, non amari, 


Tua nos inebriari 
Digneris potentia !” 


We ad hear the tinkling of bells; but not the 
bells of the cloisters, only those of the little flocks 
of black goats, driven up the hillside by some 
sabotted Swiss boy. 

As the day darkened over the impressive gorges 
and the cavernous ravines, we could not keep 





IN THE TRACK OF “THE GOLDEN LEGEND.” jy 


from our tongues the exclamation of Walter the 
Minnesinger, as he turns to Prince Henry, and 
says: 
—‘‘ How slowly from the scene 

The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, 

And puts them back into his golden quiver ! 

There flows the river, ever broad and still, 

As when the vanguard of the Roman legions 

First saw it from the top of yonder mountain ! 

How beautiful it is !” 


We did not find any Abbot Ernestus ready to 
press upon us the hospitalities of his convent ; 
we did not meet with any old Scriptor, ready to 


say to us: 
‘*Time has laid his hand 
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, 
But as a harper lays his open palm 
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.” 


Instead, we found telegraph wires, and opera 
tors sitting in their Scriptorzum, ready to tick off 
any messages we might desire to send to our 
friends, five hundred miles away. We found, in 
fact, the atmosphere of “The Golden Legend’ 
sensibly interfered with and disturbed. No ro- 
mance could be hung up on telegraph poles, or 
glide along the iron track of to-day. 

One of our stopping-places was at Zurich, « 
pretty little city, lying, like a bit of gold and 
silver embroidery, along the velvet edge of the 


12 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


lake of the same name. It has wide, shaded 
streets, and a drive to its elevated cemetery, which 
its inhabitants seem to regard with peculiar 
pride, as a sort of pleasure park, gave us a 
splendid view over the city, and up and down 
the lake. Of course at Zurich we were obliged 
to pay our homage to the memory of Ulric 
Zwingle, the boldest of Swiss Reformers, who, as 
Luther said of him, “Took the sword, and per- 
ished by the sword,” and to recall reverently his 
pious heroism at the Cathedral church in which 
he preached. 

We were greatly struck with the charitable 
establishments of Zurich. Its Polytechnic Uni- 
versity is of immense extent, and the building 
on the outside was singularly girdled with por- 
traits in fresco, of the distinguished sages of all 
time. Its hospitals we found to be very numer- 
ous, and held out a beckoning hand to our young 
M.D. 

But after all, Lucerne, on its Lake of the Four 
Cantons, is the lovely heart of Switzerland; and 
who that has been here for a fortnight, does not 
want to linger a month longer? Our home at 
the Scheizerhof proved as delightful as the one 
at the Falls of the Rhine. There are three such 
(the finest in Switzerland), owned by the three 





IN THE TRACK OF ‘'* THE GOLDEN LEGEND.” 13 


brothers Hoffman, who have certainly learned the 
secret of a perfect hostelrie. Jeanette, who has 
travelled over Switzerland times without count, 
declares she is never willing to turn her face 
homeward without having spent a fortnight or so 
in this loveliest of little medizval cities. 

And then one finds here such delightful people, 
English, Scotch, American tourists, who, like our- 
selves, are so bewitched by their surroundings 
that they are loth to leave them. Opposite our 
chamber windows, 


‘* Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, 

Rose tall Pilatus, with his windy pines.” 
Across the Lake stretched a line of snowy peaks. 
To the south, Righi loomed up in frowning shad- 
ow, and away down on the water’s edge, in pic- 
turesque loneliness, stood Tell’s Chapel. But 
why attempt to enumerate the attractions of this 
delightful spot, when they beckoned us on every 
hand! 

It is worth coming to Lucerne to see Thor- 
waldsen’s historic “Lion,” if for nothing else. 
After having been through unnumbered galler- 
ies of sculpture, we all concluded that we never 
had seen a piece which so moved us as this. I 
felt my eyes misting as I sat before it; and 
rather unwilling to make ashow of such emotion, 


14 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


winked away the: moisture, and turned to the 
Professor with some trite remark about the per- 
fection of the execution; but behold! there was 
a big tear on each of his cheeks; and I could not 
wonder that such a lover of noble animals as he, 
should be moved by the presentment of such 
marvellous fidelity and fortitude. The position 
of the sculpture is singularly appropriate: it is a 
little outside of the city, in a small park, and is 
cut upon the face of a mass of rock a hundred 
feet high, and surrounded by the trees and shrub- 
bery native to the spot. Within a niche of the 
rock, the lion, slightly above size, lies as in his 
lair; and the rock, being tawny-hued, the lion is 
of the color of nature. The spear has entered 
his heart, and the broken handle projects from 
his side. The expression of silent agony upon 
the face is indescribable; and yet, in his dying 
anguish, he still protects, with his paw, the shield 
that holds the fleur de lis. Above the niche is the 
inscription, 


‘*Helvetiorum Fidei Ac Virtuti,” 


and below are the names of those who sacrificed 
their lives in devotion to their trust. 

As we crossed the covered bridge, over which 
Prince Henry led Elsie, we repeated with him, 





IN THE TRACK OF “THE GOLDEN LEGEND.” 15 


‘*God’s blessing on the architects who build 

The bridges o’er swift rivers and abysses, 

Before impassable to human feet !” 
and on the other side we found ourselves in a 
city of the Middle Ages, as curious and antique 
as any on the Continent. Its streets are of the 
narrowest ; they have no sidewalks: its zigzag 
thoroughfares lead under mouldy old arches, and 
its hoary nooks and corners were simply delight 
ful. It would be hard to tell how many effigies 
and paintings of Gambrinus we saw in this 
ancient part of Lucerne. Here, at least, he 
seemed to be the supreme divinity. The cus 
toms, manners, and dress of the people were en- 
tirely diverse from the city on the other side of 
the bridge: the river made a gap between them 
of three hundred years, 

This bridge is the one so impressively described 
in “The Golden Legend,” as holding the paint- 
ings of Holbein—‘“ The Dance Macaber— the 
Dance of Death.” Julia sighed because we had 
no copy of the poem with us, so that we might 
go over each picture with the poet’s tender inter- 
pretations before us. Yet we pored eagerly over 
them all. Here was 


‘The grim musician, 
- Who leads all through the mazes of that dance 
That ends in death,” 





16 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


Here was “A young man singing to a nun”, 
overhead we saw “The Jester with his cap and 
bells.” And yonder was “ Death playing upon a 
dulcimer,” which Elsie declared had such conso- 
lation in its song that whoever heard it “could 
not choose but follow”; and we seemed to hear 
Prince Henry replying to her: 


“Tis the sound 
Of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears, 
Which are like crystal cups, half filled with water, 
Responding to a pressure of a finger, 
With music sweet and low and melancholy.” 


As we reached the end of the bridge, the sun 
was just setting: and we sat down on the worn 
old benches, while one of the party could not 
forbear taking up the words of the Abbot Er- 
nestus—time and place were so appropriate : 


‘*Slowly, slowly, up the wall 

Steals the sunshine, steals the shade; 
Evening damps begin to fall, 

Evening shadows are displayed. 
Shafts of sunshine from the west 

Paint the dusky windows red; 
Darker shadows deeper rest, 

Underneath and overhead. 
Darker, darker, and more wan, 

In my breast the shadows fall, 
Upward steals the life of man, 

As the sunshine from the wall. 
From the wall into the sky, 

From the roof along the spire; 


IN THE TRACK OF “ THE GOLDEN LEGEND.” 17 


Ah, the souls of those that die 
Are but sunbeams lifted higher !”’ 


We went to the Stifts-Kirche one evening, to 
Vespers, to hearrthe grand organ—one of the 
finest in the world. The music was indescrib- 
able: we marvelled at the size of the choir, at the 
exquisite angel-voices, at the crash of an Alpine 
storm, at the thunder and rain, and the Professor 
whispered: 

“How shall I get you home through this storm ? 
I have brought no umbrella!” 

What was our surprise on coming into the open 
air to see the stars dropping their clear reflection 
into the Lake! The marvellous choir proved to 
be one man—the wonderful organist of Lucerne. 

There was a niche in the outside wall of this 
old church, which contained a most remarkable 
bas-relievo, which greatly puzzled us. It was at 
least two hundred years old. The figures were 
life-size. A form was prostrate on the ground, 
three prone figures near, and a cathedral pulpit 
in One corner, containing an excited personage. 
Above a paling fence, appeared three heads, with 
steeple hats and pikes. It was only after a good 
deal of puzzling that we discovered it to bea 
representation of the Agony in the Garden! 


The sail down the Lake to the little village of 
me 


18 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


Vitznau was something never to be forgotten. 
Think of gliding over waters fifteen hundred feet 
deep, and as clear as a sunlit emerald! Here we 
took the train for the ascent to Righi-Kuln, of 
five miles up, which was so steep, that on our 
return, we could only maintain our seats by 
bracing our feet against the one before us. We 
had the fine fortune of arare day. But it would 
be presumption to attempt to describe what met 
our eyes when we reached the Kulm. Two hun- 
dred and thirty snow mountain peaks—eleven 
lakes, all Switzerland like a map spread at our 
feet, and Righi, with a peak so sharp that walls 
are built round for safety—who can essay to give 
a picture of all this? Here was the Wetterhorn, 
the Eiger, the Jungfrau, the Schreckhorner, and 
ali the noted peaks of the Alpine ranges before 
us. Yet after the first thrill of our wonder was 
over, and our eyes had grown weary of looking 
through our opera-glasses, we sat down upon the 
grass, starred with blue-bells, ate as fine apricots 
as we ever saw, and sipped St. Julien! The 
Doctor had decoyed us away from the bric-a- 
brace ‘booths, to the very edge of the Kulm:— 
“ Verily womankind is a mystery! Here you are 
with the most magnificent scenes before you 
‘your eyes can ever hope to see—two hundred and 








IN THE TRACK OF “THE GOLDEN LEGEND.” Ig 


thirty snow mountains, and all the lakes of Swit- 
zerland ; how can you grudge a minute thrown 
away on carved salad-forks, and moss-agate 
sleeve-buttons!” 

The harmony between the different Cantons 
on the matter of religion somewhat surprised us. 
In the Cathedral on Sunday, there was mass at 
nine o'clock; at eleven, it was filled with a Prot- 
estant congregation, no change being made ex- 
cept to place a small pulpit and cabinet organ 
within the altar-rails, and to extinguish the altar 
lights. Yet as we came out, I observed some 
Roman Catholic worshippers lighting their little 
candles outside the great iron screen, and sus- 
pending upon it votive-offerings, in the form of 
small waxen babies, waxen arms and legs, and 
even a waxen tooth; whatever part of the human 
body supposed to have been healed by the Vir. 
gin, being thus represented. 

It was hard to get away from Lucerne; but 
half of Switzerland lay before us unexplored, so 
we were fain reluctantly to go. We went down 
the beautiful Lake, on a swift steamer; and of 
course, at Tell’s Chapel, thought of the men of 
Rutly, of Gessler, and of the historic apple, with 
becoming emotion. At Fluelen we took diligence 
for Hospenthal, a primitive village, high up the 


20 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


Alps. Here we found an antique little church, 
with the mountaineers at Vespers, and an old — 
Roman tower, that dated back nobody could tell 
us how far, and we realized here, perhaps more 
than anywhere in Switzerland, the truth of the 
description given by Ruskin, of the stern sadness 
of the life of the dwellers in these remote chalets, 
as pictured in his eloquent chapter on “ Moun- 
tain Gloom.” From this point we took private 
carriages for leisurely travel through the moun- 
tain-passes; and glorious days were those that 
followed. We were still in the track of “ The 
Golden Legend,” and when we came to the 
Devil’s Bridge, we realized the truth of the Poet’s 
description : 
‘* This bridge is called the Devil’s Bridge, 

With a single arch from ridge to ridge, 

It leaps across the terrible chasm 

Yawning beneath us black and deep, 

As if, in some convulsive spasm, 


The summits of the hills had cracked, 
And made a road for the cataract.” 


Such a magnificent cauldron of boiling foam 
as itis! Upon the face of the stupendous rocks 
that rise above it, some unscrupulous hand has 
outlined, in black paint, his Satanic Majesty, 
large as life, traditional claws, tail, and all! We 
settled at once that it was the work of some 











IN THE TRACK OF “ THE GOLDEN LEGEND.” 27, 


American. No European could be guilty of such 
disrespect ! 

The St. Gothard Pass is left behind before we 
cross the Devil’s Bridge. Its gorges are exceed- 
ingly impressive; the sun can scarcely slant a 
way into their depths. No wonder Prince Henry 
shuddered at it: 

“* How bleak and bare it is—nothing but mosses; 
And yet how awful, and how beautiful!” 

Here we parted company with the invisible, 
medizeval travellers, who had been haunting our 
steps ever since we left the Odenwald; and we 
felt in a measure defrauded that we could not go 
with them into “ The land of the Madonna.” As 
their eyes did not look upon Fiesch, in its gloomy 
mountain solitude; nor the Fourka Pass, in its 
lofty grandeur; nor the Rhone Glacier, in its 
dazzling whiteness, magnificent as if it gushed 
from under God’s throne—as they did not follow 
the windings of the rushing torrents, whose 
length we traversed, and the tumbling cascades, 
that lured us on, nor climbed the heights, nor 
descend the cavernous depths of the Tete Noire, 
I will not touch these points of interest, which 
all lie outside of the track of “ The Golden Leg- 
end.” 


ALPENGLOW AT CHAMOUNY. 


WE were sitting late one evening, over our 
dessert, at the Hotel Imperial, at Chamouny, in 
delightful converse with an English clergyman 
and his wife, who were our fellow-guests, when 
G——, our young M.D., came rushing into the 





dining-room, with the most radiant expression I 
had ever seen on his face. 

“Leave your grapes and peaches,” he cried 
out, “and hurry up to the balconies, if you want 
to see the grandest sight that your eyes will ever 
see this side of Heaven !”’ | 

We made haste to follow his guidance, and in 
a few moments found ourselves on the balconies 
upon which our apartments opened. It was about 
nine o’clock; and as the village of Chamouny lies 
in a deep valley, on all sides of which the Alpine 
ranges rise to stupendous heights, the sun sets 
there very early, so that for two or three hours 
ithad beendark. Indeed we had remarked upon 
the dense quality of the darkness. The night 
was clear, and the stars were bright overhead ; 
but then it was only a very circumscribed piece 


(22) 





ALPENGLOW AT CHAMOUNY. a3 


of sky that we could see. The little Alpine town 
cannot boast of any street-lamps, save those in 
front of the hotels; but the many muleteers who 
were making arrangements for early excursions 
on the morrow, or were just guiding home parties 
who had been out all day, carried flambeaux 
about with them, which gave the dark streets a 
wild, picturesque appearance. : 
But it was not to the moving panorama, far in 
the street below us, that our eyes were directed ; 
its shifting scenes had no power to hold our 
vision in presence of the grand spectacle to which 
our gaze was lifted. Our hotel faced Mont 
Blanc, which rose before us in all its unearthly 
splendor, piercing the air to the height of some 
thing less than sixteen thousand feet. The lofty 
Alpine range, on the western side of the valley, 
towering above La Pilegére, threw a dense shadow 
half-way up the sides of Mont Blanc; and strange 
to say, the upper line of the shadow was a straight 
line, which apparently divided the immense peak 
in twain, so that this king of mountains seemed 
a mountain in the sky, with its base resting in 
depths of Cimmerian gloom. The upper half— 
that is, between seven and eight thousand feet of 
it—pierced the steely blue-black of the heavens, 
and was brought into relief against them, with 


24 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


a magic that was miraculous. The whole face 
of Mont Blanc was flooded with an intensity of 
light unlike anything our eyes had ever seen; it 
was of as pure a pink as the heart of a most 
brilliant summer rose, and its effulgence was 
such as almost to make us turn away our eyes 
from its blaze. Had the whole mountain been 
thus suffused down to the Boisson Glacier, the 
miracle of color would not have seemed so su- 
preme; but suddenly ruled off as it was by the 
black shadow of the opposite range, it did not 
seem, and we could scarcely persuade ourselves 
that it was, a thing of earth. It appeared to float 
in the upper firmament; or, as one at my side 
said, it was a sudden opening of the gates of 
Paradise, giving a glimpse of God’s throne as it 
appeared to St. John the Divine. As G had 
said, we felt it to be the grandest sight we need 





hope to see this side Heaven. 

Turning to the left the magnificent pinnacles 
of the Aiguille Verte rose as straight into the dark 
blue sky as a giant church-spire, lit with the 
same indescribable glory; all its kindred peaks 
in impenetrable shadow, save one or two that 
were tipped at the top like torches with acrimson 
flame. The effect was so strange upon us all that 
we clasped our hands in a sort of divine despair, 





ALPENGLOW AT CHAMOUNY. 25 


unable to find any expression that could convey 
the sense of what we felt, and it is a vain attempt 
to try to put the least gleam of its brilliancy 
upon my dead white page. The intensity of the 
light over Mont Blanc and the Azguille Verte was 
that of the most gorgeous sunset; it had no sug- 
gestion of the pallor and indistinctness of moon- 
light: and it gave us some faint idea of the 
height of these peaks, when we remembered that 
the sun, which had been three hours set in the 
valley below us, was really lighting up, with its 
fullest blaze of splendor, their bald, snowy pin- 
nacles, revealing their gorges to our eyes as 
clearly as if we were looking at them through a 
great magnifying-glass. The revelation which 
this Alpine vision, so dazzling to our sight 
through its intense radiance, gave us of the splen- 
dor and majesty of God’s handiwork, was alone 
worth crossing the ocean to see. We were all 
overshadowed with something of the sacred and 
exalted feeling which St. Peter expressed on the 
Mount of Transfiguration, when he exclaimed : 
“Master, it is good to be here!” For I am sure 
we watched the fading out of the unearthly splen- 
dor with a deeper sense of Almighty power than 
perhaps had ever visited our consciousness be- 
fore. 


26 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


There are Alpenglows and Alpenglows: but 
this was one of such rare character as visitors to 
Alpine regions may not often see. Two of our 
number had been at Chamouny at various times, 
but they had never happened to see anything 
like this: and during the rest of our stay, we 
never saw even a faint gleam of this lustrous 
color again, though we watched vainly for it 
through the clear starlight. 

If we were all lifted into a condition of exalted 
poetic feeling, by the rare glories on which our 





eyes had been resting, G was the only one 


of us who gave rhythmic expression to his emo- 
tions. So, 1 will press his sonnet between my 
pages, as I pressed the Edelweis gathered just at 
the edge of the snow, between the pages of my 
Baedeker. 


ALPENGLOW. 


Softly the darkness falis upon the plain, 
And shuts the snow-capped mountains from the sight 
Of eager eyes, that gaze with new delight 
On Nature’s solemn grandeur, when again, 
Like far-off echo of some sad refrain, 
There steals a rosy-soft, unearthly light 
Along the glistening snow, above the night, 
That fills the valley with its dusky train. 
Thus memories of dream-like long ago, 
With tender, half-forgotten joys replete, 
Gleam far above the darkness round our feet, 
For one brief, happy moment ere they go. 





ALPENGLOW AT CHAMOUNY. oF 


How sad they are, and strange, but passing sweet, 
These flitting visions of Life’s Alpenglow ! 


But there are multitudes of things besides 
Alpenglows to be seen in and about Chamouny. 
There is the ascent of Mont Blanc, which is made 
by parties every day; for it is not quite the for- 
midable thing it used to be. An English lady 
accomplished the feat while we were there, and 
was none the worse for her hazardous adventure. 
Those making the ascent go to the Grands Mulets, 
where there is a chalez, stored with provisions, 
brandies, and arrangements for passing the night, 
and from there the rest of the ascent is made the 
next day. There are several large telescopes 
near the principal hotels, by means of which the 
ascending parties can be watched; and we saw 
them distinctly, as they wound up in long, single 
file, tied together by ropes; and shivered as they 
crossed the planks thrown over the crevasses on 
hands and knees. When the highest point is 
reached, for which they keenly watch through 
the telescope, a cannon is always fired in Cha- 
mouny, to indicate to all that the party is safe. 
This is repeated as soon as the tourists return to 
the village. One can only breathe for a very few 
moments in the rarefied air; so that an immense 
toil has to be gone through, and about two hun- 


28 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


dred dollars expended, for the privilege of say- 
ing that this air has been breathed, even for a 
very brief space of time. 

Of course everybody crosses the Mer de Glace, 
and visits J/ontanvert, and ascends La Flegére; 
but those of us who accomplished this, had the 
unusual experience of crossing the Mer de Glace 
in one of the most violent of thunder-storms. 
Anna was a brave traveller, however, though she | 
owned that to be sheeted in lightning, under a 
deluge of water, with the snow crunching beneath 
her alpenstock, was not quite as pleasant as it 
might be. 

We have ludicrous experience often of the 
English and Continental lack of a sense of the 
fitness of things. When Julia crossed the Jer de 
Glace, one of the party happened to be a young 
French lady, who was dressed for the exception- 
ally difficult excursion, in a sky-blue silk dress, 
with a long train, trimmed with lace, which had 
to be ignominiously tucked under the mule’s 
saddle. One of our fellow guests at the Hotel 
Imperial, who was of Anna’s party, had scarcely 
any more sensible ideas about her habiliments, 
but the wiser American woman counselled her to 
adopt short skirts, somewhat @ /a Bloomer, and 
throw over all a pretty gray gossamer, which she 





ALPENGLOW AT CHAMOUNY. 29 


accordingly did, to her great comfort and con- 
venience. At dinner that evening, where the 
events of the day were being discussed, Anna 
heard an English party a few seats above her, 
commenting quite acrimoniously upon the dress 
of a certain lady who had crossed the ice-sea that 
day. “And what do you think,” said the elderly 
dowager — “of the daring of one tourist who 
wore skirts not much longer than a ballet- 
dancer’s, covering them with nothing but a water- 
proof? For my part, I think American women 
do horrid things sometimes, for I conceive that 
this was a little scandalous!” 

“ Hush-sh-sh,” said Anna, turning to the speak- 
er; “the lady to whom you allude sits just below 
me, and—she is an English woman!” 

We all know that Englishmen cannot exist 
without their daily “tubbing”’; and as they know 
that among the Alps bath-tubs are not to be had 
at every stopping-place, they actually are in the 
habit, frequently, of carrying their great tin ap- 
paratus with them. These are slung on the out- 
side of the diligence; and we were much amused 
by some of our family party describing the in- 
numerable accidents that happened to these 
bath-tubs. In the ascent of the Alpine steeps, 
the fastenings would often break, and away they 


30 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


would roll, bounding down the mountain-side , 
the diligence would have to stop, and the postillion 
or guide be sent after the erratic tub; and this 
was a thing which was continually happening. 
But it did not convince the Englishman that it 
was anything out of the way to be carrying such 
unwieldy articles up the Swiss gorges, and down 
the dangerous passes. 

We went one day, to see one of the grandest 
gorges Switzerland can show, and one which we 
were surprised was not more visited. It is about 
five miles from Chamouny, over a road which at 
every turn gives one such pictures of enchant- 
ment as can be seen nowhere out of Switzerland ; 
it would be the idlest effort to try to give one an 
idea of it. 

This Diozas Gorge is a gigantic rift, through 
which the glaciers of the highest Alpine ranges 
send down a volume of water, which is lashed, 
during its whole descent, into snowy foam. 

The gorge is very narrow, and so exceedingly 
steep as to be ascended only by means of thou- 
sands of wooden steps, planted against the per- 
pendicular rocks. In many places these stair- 
ways were so fragile that they trembled beneath 
our footsteps, and as we looked over the slight 
barrier, it made us shudder to think of the awful 





ALPENGLOW AT CHAMOUNY. 31 


peril of a misstep, and of the plunge into the icy 
current, so fearfully far below. It seemed to us 
that there must have been two miles of ascent, 
before we attained the little chalet, from which a 
bridge, that looks like a spider’s web, spans the 
tremendous gorge tothe other side. But, O, the 
exhaustion of that Alpine climbing! We would 
not have undertaken it had we any idea of the 
peril which it entailed. I was dragged up the 
last two or three flights of steps by the arms, and 
stretched upon a bench, placed for tourists to 
rest on, brandy poured down my throat, and ice- 
water thrown into my face, dipped from the cav- 
ernous depths by means of a little iron bucket 
fastened to the end of along chain. Thanks be 
to Heaven that I did not die in the Diozas Gorge! 

When after many hours we reached the bottom 
again, and sat down to luncheon prepared for us 
under a crimson-covered tent, we understood 
why this gorge was not more in favor with 
tourists; but before the sun began to sink behind 
the western Alpine range, we had all recovered 
sufficiently to resume our seats in the travelling- 
catriage, and we did not regret having made an 
ascent which seemed to us to involve as much 
peril and exhaustion of muscle as the ascent of 
Mont Blanc itself. For it gave us such an idea 


32 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 





perella does in one of his Spanish Letters 
certainly pleasant to have travelled; but—- 


ty ’ 
travel.’ 
ai 
te, 
it 
<n 
° 





A PICNIC ON THE DRACHENFELS. 


A morE beautiful day than the one on which 
we made the ascent of the Drachenfels never was 
seen out of Paradise. We fancied that there was 
some special quality in the atmosphere along the 
Rhine that gave it an almost intoxicating rich- 
ness and sweetness. We were approaching the 
districts where the most famous German wines 
are grown; and we expected to see next day, as 
we did, that special region lying along the Rhine, 
where all the Johannisberg and Hock in the 
world is made. When we beheld the compara- 
tively limited extent of the vineyards, we could 
well believe the assertion, that it is a rare bottle 
of the famous wine that ever finds its way to our 
distant shores. 

In this, no doubt, lay the germ of our fancy 
_that the air of Kénigswinter—a little cluster of 
hotels which stretches along the foot of the 
craggy Drachenfels—was of exceptional purity 
and sweetness. The Rhine, at this point, winds 
with beautiful curves, and as it was the middle 


of July, the vast extent of wooded and mountain 
3 (33) 


34 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS, 


landscape was still in its full freshness of sum- 
mer glory. The frowning rocky pile, rising in 
almost perpendicular palisades from the very 
water’s edge, loomed invitingly above us, crowned 
with the remains of the ancient Castle, about 
which the old pagan tradition still clings, like the 
many-hued lichens that cover its hoary walls. 

A picnic among the old ruins seemed very 
attractive; so we had a wagonette, with a vast 
umbrella over it, brought to the door of the 
“ Berliner-Hof,” and our party of four was soon 
spinning away over a road as smooth as a floor. 





Some Baron Von , we know not what, who 
owns the Drachenfels, and has built a very new 
castle in its close neighborhood, has constructed 
a zigzag railway up to its very top—a track 
almost as dangerous-looking as that up the Righi. 
We preferred our wagonette, however, and by 
taking a long, circuitous route we were able to 
drive to the very door of the little hotel near the 
ruins. And a most exquisite drive it was! Not 
even in England had we seen a finer gravelled 


road: the country was exceedingly picturesque, 


the little farms were finely cultivated, and our 
whole route was bordered in the most beautiful 
way by an unbroken stretch of the mountain- 
ash, in the full splendor of its crimson berries. 








4A PICNIC ON THE DRACHENFELS. 35 


Never in my life had I seen such.gorgeous clus- 
ters. With the cloudless sun full upon them 
they lit up our whole pathway. 

When we alighted at the door of the inn, near 
the top of the mountain, we found the court- 
yard—a great, green, shady one—filled with the 
inevitable little circular white tables, that one 
sees everywhere as soon as one crosses the Straits 
of Dover. About these were gathered family 
groups, and knots of tourists, sipping beer and 
eating fruit. 

The capacity of Germans, men, women, and 
children, for guzzling beer is something marvel- 
lous. Two persons never sit down together any- 
where without the companionship of the ubiqui- 
tous bottle. Tender little girls, with flossy hair, 
and mites of boys in knickerbockers, are con- 
stantly invited by their parents to drink to the 
honor of Gambrinus—the supreme divinity of 
Teuton worship. The pictures and effigies of 
this inventor of the national drink, which we 
meet with everywhere in the old medizval streets 
of Continental cities, had led us to think that he 
must have been the only god of their adoration 
in those ancient days. 

The ascent to the top of the crags on which 
the Castle stands is very steep, and the climbing 


36 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


of it is by no means an easy task. It was not 
hard to believe that these fastnesses of the rob- 
ber Barons of old were entirely impregnable. 
One marvels that they could ever be taken under 
the old system of warfare. Before stepping into 
the area of the walls of Drachenfels which re- 
main, we passed a wonderfully preserved tower, 
with masonry of immense thickness, built, it is 
said, by the first Barons A.D. 900. This masonry 
is intact yet, and looks as if it might stand until 
the day of doom. 

As we came out upon the smooth greensward, 
on the very apex of the crag crowned by the 
old Castle, a most magnificent sweep of country 
met our view, such as hardly can be elsewhere 
seen in Germany. Some two thousand feet below 
us the clear Rhine curved and sparkled till lost 
in the blue distance. Dotted as it was with 
steamers and craft of every kind, floating the 
flags of varied nationalities, the effect was pic- 
turesque in the extreme. The Seven Mountains, 
so linked with German legend, were all in sight; 
and as we looked through the loop-holes of the 
old walls sheer down the perpendicular steep, 
we found them draped with honeysuckle and 
columbine and ivy, a magnificent tangle of the 
most gorgeous color the eye need ever care to 








A PICNIC ON THE DRACHENFELS. on 


restupon. It was natural enough to recall Byron’s 
verses while gazing over the rich landscape: 
‘** The castled crag of Drachenfels 
Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks that bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom’d trees, 


And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scattered cities crowning these ’?—— 


With a strong arm about me for safety, I 
stepped upon the high, broken crag from which 
the legend tells us the Green Dragon, who gave 
name to the Castle, flung himself into the Rhine 
below; no wonder after such a leap that he never 
was heard of more. Who does not know the 
tradition of the Green Dragon of the Drachen- 
fels? How he was the terror of the pagan inhab- 
itants, because he required human victims, which 
they sacrificed to him asa fiendish divinity, whom 
they could only thus appease : how, when a beau- 
tiful Christian maiden was taken captive in war, 
and the two baron brothers quarrelled as to 
which should have possession of her, the pagan 
priest decided that she should be offered in sacri- 
fice to the Dragon: how, as she advanced to the 
mouth of his den, holding the crucifix in her 
hand, she cried out, “Jesus, deliver me!” and 
thrust the symbol of her faith before the three- 


38 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


mouthed monster: how, awe-stricken at the sight, 
he sprang to the point of rock on which I stood, 
and precipitated himself into the waters below: 
how the pagan people were overcome by the 
miracle, and forthwith turned from their false 
worship and became Christian. 

As I stood there, drinking in the diversified 
richness of the glorious landscape, I realized the 
underlying significancy of the old legend, and 
felt the fullness of its meaning as I never had 
done before. 

With venturesome hardihood we leaned as far 
as we dared over the flower-festooned crag, and 
gathered memorial leaves and blossoms, per- 
fectly sure while doing so that they would never 
cross the ocean with us. We picked stones from 
under the nine-hundred-year-old foundations, 
though Julia suggested that we could toss them 
all into a bag, with pebbles gathered at fifty 
other places of note, and, like Mark Twain, oc- 
cupy ourselves on shipboard by labelling them 
according to our fancy. <A bit of rock from Sor- 
rento could not be materially different from the 
piece picked out from the wall of the Drachen- 
fels. And besides, they both were as old as 
Adam. 

Shall I tell you of our sitting upon the green- 








A PICNIC ON THE DRACHENFELS. 39 


sward at the mouth of the Dragon’s Cavern, 
eating pretzels and apricots and nectarines and 
little German seed-cakes, and sipping from tiny 
glasses our cool St. Julien? Shall I tell you how 
the blue-eyed German Fraulein watched us, and 
wondered at the lack of a sense of the fitness of 
things which kept those queer Americans from 
drinking, in such a place, to the honored memory 
of old Gambrinus? Shall I describe our down- 
ward drive, so rapid as to more than match the 
railway train, that landed us at the door of the 
Berliner-Hof in time for fable @’hote, where we ate 
fresh fish, just taken from the Rhine, of almost 
the richest flavor we had ever tasted—fish whose 
ancestors, at a far distant date, had no doubt 
feasted on the scaly body of the Green Dragon 
of the Drachenfels? No need for this, but I 
must be permitted to say that it will not be easy 
ever to blur in my memory that vision of beauty 
seen from the walls of the old robber Castle. 

As we sat over our dessert, we could not help 
drawing contrasts between the groups we had 
just left, picnicing in the great court-yard of 
the Drachenfels inn, with the same class of people 
in our own country. ‘“ Where in all America,” 
asked the Professor, “would you find artisans 
and families of laboring people going such a 


40 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRA?IEHS. 


distance to drink beer and eat pretzels, with 
wives and children, on a Friday afternoon? Say 
what you will, our working people at home don’t 
know how to put into life, or rather how to get 
out of it, anything like as much of simple, inno- 
cent enjoyment as these toiling Continentals.” 

And we were all fain to agree with him, for 
ever since we had been on the Continent, we had 
been meeting everywhere these domestic groups 
out on pleasure excursions; the burly father 
with a little tot in his arms, the mother with the 
unfailing baby, and three or four little toddlers, 
at their heels, dragging along the lunch-basket. 
We found them on top of the Righi, on the edge 
of the Black Forest, on the shores of Lake Gen- 
eva, among the passes of Switzerland, in the 
aisles of great cathedrals, and among medieval 
ruins. And yet these German peasants have 
infinitely less, as a class, to make them happy 
than our laboring people at home. 








THE SKULL-CAPS OF COLOGNE. 


“TI HAD not supposed,” innocently remarked a 
lady sitting opposite me at the breakfast-table 
at the Dome Hotel, in the ancient city of the 
Three Kings, “that Cologne was remarkable for 
much beyond its wonderful Cathedral, and its 
Jean Maria Farina’s Eau de Cologne; and yet 
I heard you speaking this morning of its very 
curious skull-caps. If they are a matter of com- 
merce, I must secure one to carry home.” 

“As to their being a matter of commerce,” re- 
plied Julia, who had been at Cologne before, and 
knew all about its ins and outs, “I cannot make 
answer; but in your rounds this morning you 
will have an opportunity to put the question to 
some of our guides.” 

Was it not Goethe who called the Cologne 
Cathedral, “‘a miracle of frostwork in stone’’? 
We realized the truth of the suggestion, as we 
stood in presence of its two immense towers, 
flooded with the clear morning light, and tried 
to compass in some degree the magnificence of 


the splendid structure, which required so many 
(4) 


42 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


centuries to bring to its perfect completion. To 
stand within its vaulted entrance, and gaze upon 
the countless groups of carved figures niched 
on either side and above it, each so perfect as 
fairly to take one’s breath, makes one feel how 
impossible it is, rightly to estimate the infinite 
richness of the details of this mighty structure. 
To look aloft to the countless statues that peo- 
ple the entire front, makes one grow dizzy with 
wonder. To stand sufficiently distant to take in 
at one glance, the immense height of the building, 
with its heaven-piercing towers, whose splendid 
pinnacles carry up the same detail of grandest 
carving to their topmost point, fills the mind with 
a sort of awe and reverence for the handiwork 


of man. Then to pass under the forest of arches, — 


up the grand aisle, and lose one’s self amid the 
splendors of the gorgeous interior, is sufficient 
to arouse one’s enthusiasm almost to the pitch 
of painfulness. However I might pile exple- 
tives together, they would convey little idea of 
the grandeur that dazed our sight, as we stood 
before the tomb of the Three Kings, and looked 
down through the interminable Gothic arches of 
those superb aisles. 

The richness of the stone carvings, down to 
their minutest details, is beyond conception. 


ee a ee ee a 





ae 





THE SKULL-CAPS OF COLOGNE. 43 


Everywhere we have lacework, wrought not 
with needle and linen floss, but with chisel and 
stone: eight centuries of artist life and genius 
have religiously wrought themselves into these 
roofs, and arches, and pillars, and monuments, 
and statues, and altars. 

Four years ago, one of our number, who does 
not happen to be with us to-day, was here; and 
in presence of the pretty German maiden who 
waited on himself and Jeanette, as they made 
some purchases, was lamenting the unfinished 
condition of the towers. 

**Come back, mein Herr,” she interpolated be- 
tween his lamentations, “come back in four 
years and you will find it finished.” 

““That’s what the people of Cologne have been 
saying these two hundred years—” 

“But this time, mein Herr, come back and you 
will see.” 

“Well, if I return within four years, and find 
the hideous derrick, which has been resting on 
yon tower for a century, gone, you shall have as 
pretty a gold medal as Cologne can furnish, 
mein fraulein !” 

If he follows us within a week or so, he will 
have to make the fraulein happy with his pres- 
ent, if she can be found. 


44 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


I am not writing a book of travels; and am 
therefore under no obligation to deal statisti- 
cally, in tourist fashion, with Cologne Cathedral, 
or anything else. I wish rather that I could re- 
produce the droll English of the guide whose 
duty it is to show the tombs of the Three Kings: 
“Dis ish de tome of de Tree King—Caspar, 
Melchior, and Balthasar—de grands Mages de 
l’Orient—” 

“ But if they were the Magi of the East,” chaffed 
a brisk young American tourist standing by, 
“how came they ever to find their way to Co- 
logne?” 

The guide, who could not be interrupted in 
the lesson which he only knew by rote, repeated: 
“Dis ish de tome of de Tree King—Caspar, 
Melchior, and Balthasar—de grands Mages de 
Orient, wko vas buried here by Charlemagne 
in eight hunder, fourteen—” 

‘“No, no; that cannot be. Barbarossa brought 
them to Milan in the time of the first crusade—”’ 

“Ste unterbrechen! Dis ish de tome of de 
Tree King—Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar— 
de grand Mages de 1’Orient, who vas buried here 
by Charlemagne in eight hunder, fourteen, what 
time de Cathedral vas founded—’” 

“But, my good fellow, Charlemagne was in 





a 
2 ie ae 7 








THE SKULL-CAPS OF COLOGNE. 45 


his grave two or three centuries before the re- 
mains of the Three Kings were ever discovered.” 

But to no purpose was the guide set right; for 
the fourth time he began: “Dis ish de tome of 
de Tree King—” But the saucy students had 
had sport enough out of the puzzled guide, and 
did not wait for the continued iteration. 

It is not necessary to repeat here the old Ger- 
man legend as to the source of the architectural 
design of the Cathedral,—how his satanic maj- 
esty availed himself of the crazy hopelessness of 
the architect who was employed to furnish the 
design, and supplied him with the very one after 
which the “dom” was built, on condition that 
he would consent to resign his soul to him when 
the structure was complete, demanding that he 
should sign the compact with his blood. As we 
gazed along the vistas of the long-drawn inte- 
rior, we were disposed to find some truth in the 
old story, inasmuch as the architect would seem 
to have had some superhuman help to conceive 
such a design. 

The relics of the Cathedral are marvellous; 
part of the Theban Legion is buried here; 
which fact we accepted with the same faith as 
that of the entombment of the Three Kings 
The unnumbered paintings that line the walls are, 


46 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


many of them, by the most celebrated of the Old 
Masters. But it is the Church of St. Ursula 
that is fullest of the true odor of sanctity; and 
as the visitor stands in the side chambers, and 
runs an eye up and down the walls, which are 
mosaiced from floor to ceiling with the bones 
of the saint, and her eleven thousand virgins 
arranged in every possible pattern and device, it 
must be confessed the odor of this sanctity be- 
comes oppressive. 

“What a vast number of battlefields,” ex- 
claimed our young M.D., “it must have taken 
to furnish human remains enough to inlay these 
walls!” 

Here it was that we came upon the skull-caps 
that our friend had inquired about at breakfast ; 
but we found they were not purchasable, or we 
surely would have brought away some trophies. 
Arranged on innumerable shelves were the skulls 
of the famous eleven thousand maidens (we ac- 
cepted the number), every skull being covered 
with a crimson, or blue cloth, or velvet cap, most 
elaborately embroidered, with sacred devices, in 
gold or silver thread. It surely was a hideous 
sight to see! It fairly made our hearts ache 
over the blank superstition of the multitude of 
pious young nuns, whose fingers had lovingly 











THE SKULL-CAPS OF COLOGNE. 47 


wrought all this decoration for this wretched 
débris of humanity. We were mistaken in saying 
that skull-caps were not marketable articles in 
Cologne; for we found that extra fees had to be 
paid for a sight of them, and that thus they are 
a source of great revenue to the Church. 

In this same Church of St. Ursula we were 
gravely shown, by a young priest, an alabaster 
vase, very much discolored and badly cracked, 
which was one of the water-pots at the marriage- 
feast at Cana. We looked at it as reverently as 
we could, and asked no questions about the 
“two or three firkins,” seeing this one would not 
hold half a gallon. With a certain degree of 
awe, two of the nails which had pierced our 
Lord’s feet were shown to us; and we were per- 
mitted to look at the forefinger of St. Mark, 
preserved in a glass case, and the fleshless arm 
of the Centurion who pierced the Saviour’s 
side. An even bushel of fine white teeth was 
shown to us, the teeth of the poor virgins, which 
would have been a treasure-trove to some mod- 
ern dentist. 

The Cologne markets were much of acuriosity 
to us. A certain broad square, or street, is set 
apart for the display and sale of every imagin- 
able sort of vegetable and fruit. In the early 


48 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


part of the day the entire square is as thickly 
covered over with little stools as it is possible 
for them to be placed; and here the market- 
people sit, with their panniers around them, with 
gay-colored shawls tied over their heads, in the 
midst of such a babel as the Plain of Shinar 
could not exceed. We tried to make our way 
amongst them; but they were as closely packed 
as a box of sardines. For the most part they 
seemed to be very poverty-smitten, and we 
stopped now and then to compassionate a poor 
mother with a basket of cabbages on one side 
of her, and a basket of babies on the other. Yet 
_ they all chattered away at the top of their voices, 
almost setting us wild with their Teutonic jar- 
gon, which was very incomprehensible to the 
Professor, who was the only one among us that 
talked German. One may have Goethe and 
Schiller at his tongue’s end, and yet not be able 
to comprehend when a German market-woman 
tries to make him know the price of her apricots 
and plums. I verily believe that our own country 
is the only one on the face of the earth, in which 
the entire population can perfectly understand 
each other’s lingo. 

There are many galleries of paintings in Co- 
logne; but they dwindle into insignificance under 





; 
i 
: 
‘ 








THE SKULL-CAPS OF COLOGNE. 49 


the mighty shadow of its grand Cathedral, which 
seems to dwarf everything else which the old 
city contains. As we walked about it, and tried 
to take in the true conception of its magnificent 
proportions, we longed for a conflagration or a 
cyclone to come and sweep away the multitude 
of low, miserable buildings that crowd upon it 
and help to mar its superb unity. There is ab- 
solutely no point from which the coup a’ ail is in 
any degree satisfying; so persistently does mean- 
ness and squalor thrust itself upon its greatness. 


4, 


THE OUBLIETTES OF CHILLON. 


SurELY there are no lakes in the world equal 
to these Swiss ones, embedded as they are, like 
sapphires and emeralds in their setting of snow 
mountains! Of the entire eleven of them, into 
whose deep waters we have looked, not one is so 
beautiful as the Lake of the Four Cantons; and 
not one is so historic as Lake Leman; :or to give 
it its every-day name, this calm Lake of Geneva, 
into whose crystal waters we have been gazing 
for days past. But we were not content with 
what we could see of it, as we crossed and re- 
crossed from one shore to the other, in our drives 
“and walks about this old French city of Geneva. 
So yesterday we stepped on board one of the 
swift steamers, that every little while are passing 
before the windows of our pretty hotel, and de- 
termined to explore the lake to its very end, that 
is to the Castle of Chillon. 

It would be hardly possible to imagine a day 
fitted for more perfect enjoyment. There is a 
quality about the atmosphere of these Swiss lakes 
that is something indescribable—a crystalline 


(50) 









* 
tee 


ar 





THE OUBLIETTES OF CHILLON. 51 


transparency that enables one to see, with perfect 
distinctness, Mont Blanc, and some of its sister 
snow-peaks fifty miles away—a freshness that 
touches the cheek like the breath of Eden, and 
an exhilaration in the air that gives wings to the 
spirit, and exaltation to the thought, and a rare- 
fied buoyancy to the whole nature. One grows 
mercurial as one glides over these sapphire wa- 
ters. Wings sprout about our head and feet; and 
wandering along these shores, we seem rather to 
float than walk grossly on solid earth. As we 
sat upon the awned deck, we felt as if we were 
skimming charmed waves whose light ripples 
must certainly wash the shores of the Fortunate 
Isles ! 

The variations, the curves, the windings of 
these shores, fairly bewitch one with their beauty. 
Towns, villages, hamlets, and chateaux give the 
shores an embroidery of life, intermingled every 
now and then with glimpses of open country, 
which alternate with mountain ramparts, that 
rise like solid walls of greenery from the very 
water’s edge. Not many miles from Geneva we 
stopped at a pretty little watering-place, where 
were crowds of visitors—invalids in their bath- 
chairs, ladies in their little landaus, and innumer- 
able babies, who were being trolled up and down 


52 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS, 


the gravel walks by their donnes. The shade was 
so dense all around these baths that hat and 
parasol were discarded by the ladies; and it 
seemed a most tempting place for the ruralizing 
Genevese. We made search here for some Amer- 
ican friends who had been in Europe a year or 
two; but they had left the place, and so we kept 
on our way toward the end of the lake. 

It is hard to realize that the Castle of Chillon 
is fifty miles from Geneva. We left the Beau Ri- 
vage after an early breakfast, and by midday 
were at the village which has grown up in the 
neighborhood of the chateau, where we had our 
choice of going by row-boat or rail to the little 
peninsula on which the towers of Chillon stand. 
With such a sky and water about us, we prefer- 
red the boat; and as a dozen of them presented. 
themselves in the cove, our eyes were quick to 
discern one that floated the American flag. So 
we took our seats on the bright cushions of 
L’ Audace, and were soon at the foot of the long 
stairway that leads from the Castle down to the 
water; for the chateau is wholly surrounded with 
water, being connected with the land by means 
of a long drawbridge. 

This old haunt and home, and state prison of 
the ancient Dukes of Savoy, is in a fine state of 








THE OUBLIETTES OF. CHILLON. | 53 


preservation ; its various round-pointed towers 
are intact, and there is about it scarcely any 
symptom of decay; the walls are white and per- 
fect, and show with fine relief the clustering ivy 
that drapes them. 

It gives one a sense of suffocation to pass so 
instantly from the free rich atmosphere of the 
lake, and the careering winds, that were driving 
the light clouds over the sky, into the dusky 
walls of this gloomy prison-house. The Ama- 
deuses, and Humberts of the ancient line of 
Dukes, had nerves made of well-wrought steel, or 
they never could have dwelt over these ghostly 
dungeons. And yet so magnificent are the views 
in every direction, that there must have been 
somewhere in their cruel natures a soft spot ca- 
pable of being moved by the splendid richness 
of the outer world about them. The mockery 
between this external glory and the horror of 
the dungeons into which we stepped, quite dis- 
turbed our equanimity, for shuddering shadows 
seemed to haunt every corner of these dark pre- 
cincts. A bluff Savoyard, with a great bunch of 
ponderous keys, received us at the top of the 
stairway, and conducted us across the paved 
court-yard; and without any softening of effect 
by gradual approach, led us straight down a 


54 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


flight of worn stone steps into lower chambers 
of the Castle, at the extremity of which are the 
dungeons. The first apartment is a dreary chapel, 
so dark that no leaf of a missal could have been 
read there at midday without artificial light. It 
is not to be supposed that these wicked old Dukes 
frequented the chapel, as the welfare of their 
souls did not enter much into their calculations. 
From the chapel we wound through a narrow 
passage, which seemed to us a pathway of hor- 
rors. The guide pointed to a deep niche in the 
immensely thick foundation-walls, which had an. 
opening at the top, now built over. Through 
this circular hole the dead bodies of the miser- 
able wretches, who had been racked, flayed to 
death, or sent out of life by other ingenuities of 
refined torture, were thrown down into this niche, 
within whose half circle we stood. Immediately 
across the passage-way from it was a black sub- 
terranean opening, like a well, termed by the old 
chroniclers most rightly, an oudlzette. Into this 
opening the bodies of the victims were cast, and 
falling to the bottom of its eight hundred feet 
of water, were swept out into the depths of the 
beautiful lake. What a cold shiver it gave one 
to look down into its inscrutable depths ! 

This narrow passage terminated at the door 








THE OUBLIETTES OF CHILLON. 55 


of the principal dungeon—Bonnivard’s Dungeon, 
as it has come to be called; though multitudes 
of prisoners groaned out their lives there, whose 
fates were more terrible than his—for seven 
years of chains and anguish at last brought him 
release—but for these there was only the release 
of the rack or the oubiiette. In the strict sense of 
the word, this is not a dungeon, for there are at 
least a couple of slits in the ten-feet-thick walls, 
through which faint indications of daylight came. 
Still it was so dark that, although the day was a 
very brilliant one, and it was not far past high 
noon, I had to grope over the floor, which was 
roughly paved, for the pebble or two which I 
wanted to bring away, to have set for my boys’ 
watch-chains. Never, from one of these slits, 
totally inaccessible to the prisoner, could Bonni- 
vard have caught the least glimpse of the beau- 
tiful little island, of which Byron speaks, right 
opposite the chateau, on which he fancies the cap- 
tive’s eyes must often longingly have rested. 
The dungeon is long and low, and through its 
centre run the seven historical pillars, great squat 
masses of stone, to which Bonnivard and his 
brothers were chained. The staple and links of 
the rusty chain still remain. I passed them rev- 
erently through my hands, not troubling myself 


56 ' A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


to question whether they could actually be the 
same under which the pulses of this martyr of 
Liberty so long throbbed. Around the pillar 
there was a circular groove, distinctly worn by 
years of torturing tread. Just above the staple 
was rudely scored the name of Byron, done by 
his own hand. Standing there under the too 
overwhelming rush of thought and emotion, one 
could only wonder that Byron, with all his power 
and pathos, had not infused with a deeper indig- 
mation, and a more shuddering thrill, the story 
of Bonnivard’s captivity: though he has well 
said— 
‘*Chillon !—thy prison is a holy place, 
And thy sad floor, an altar,-for ’twas trod 
Until his very steps have left a trace 


Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard !” 


From these chambers of horror, we ascend to 
the apartments overhead, where the old Dukes 
of Savoy and their Duchesses were accustomed 
to hold princely revels in the ancient day. Right 
over the dungeon were the Halls of Justice and 
of Execution. There was the spot where a 
species of guillotine had stood; on the other 
side the place where the fiendish rack rent limb 
from limb. And yet from these dens of cruelty, 








THE OUBLIETTES OF CHILLON. 57 


we looked, as we stood in the embrasures of the 
deep windows, out upon as magnificent a scene 
as mortal eye need ever to rest on. 

Beyond these halls were the apartments of the 
Duchesses; a bed-chamber, and a dressing-room, 
with a great corner chimney-piece. Thick as 
these walls are, the ears of her Serene Highness 
must sometimes have been regaled with shrieks 
and groans of the victims just beyond her; and 
it must have been necessary sometimes for her 
ladies to thrum their lutes and guitars pretty 
Joudly to stifle the cry of anguish. 

Farther on is the great hall, where the Dukes 
of Savoy were accustomed to hold wassail after 
being tired out with their troublesome businé$s 
of condemning prisoners at the other end of the 
long suite of apartments. There was an im- 
mense fireplace in this hall. Its walls had once 
been frescoed, but only faint traces remained of 
the pictures, and around the frieze at the top of 
the wall, ran a long, black-letter legend, whose 
pious import we could only faintly make out. 
These great rooms seemed almost as suffocating 
as the dungeons below, haunted as they were by 
the memories of the cold-blooded cruelties of 
the men who had inhabited them. 

We were glad to come out into the sunshine 


58 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


of the court-yard; although it was only that the 
guide might lead us across to another wing of 
the Castle, fearful with still further associations 
of horror. We were taken into a room, at one 
end of which was another oudlzette, with a strong 
iron bar around its edge. The guide bade us 
look down. There were half a dozen steps, and 
beyond them, impenetrable darkness. To this 
spot prisoners who were more than ordinarily 
offensive to their tyrannical rulers, were con- 
ducted blindfold, and were bidden to step down, 
entirely unaware of the fate that awaited them; 
they stepped, and plunged eighty feet into the 
waters below. “And, Madame,” said the Savoy- 
afd guide—with a chord of pity in his tone—“ Jez 
le lac a plus de mille pieds de profondeur, et on en rien 
entend dire plus—jamais, jamais.” 

I can hardly say that we were sorry to get 
beyond the shadow of walls that seemed as if 
they must be cemented with blood; and as we 
took our seats in the little Audace, and were 
rowed out mid-stream, we looked back at the 
Chateau, lifting its towers so beautifully from 
its jutting peninsula, and drew a long breath of 
relief and of thanksgiving, that the world had 
grown so much better since those diabolical 
days of the past. 


nb 
—, P 








THE OUBLIETTES OF CHIELON. 59 


At the little village of Chillon, we varied our 
experience of the Lake and its lovely environ- 
ments, by taking the train back to Geneva. 
This led us through many an historic point. At 
Vevay, Rousseau forced himself upon our mem- 
ories; and Clarens compelled us to think of 
“La Nouvelle Heloise.” The ponderous volumes 
of Gibbon’s “ Decline and Fall” seemed to lumber 
into view at Lausanne; and we did not wonder 
that the self-indulgent historian loved to linger 
at so beautiful a spot, while he leisurely gave 
himself up to his bombastic periods. Coppet 
had far tenderer associations for us; we liked to 
fancy that we could see the brilliant Corinne 
behind the grim brick walls of the lawn; Cha- 
teaubriand, or Benjamin Constant, or Ampére 
or Madame Recamier on the garden seat beside 
her. And while we sympathized with the fact 
of her exile, it did not seem to us that there was 
anything very severe in being banished from the 
salons of Paris, when her banishment led her to 
such a retreat as these shaded walks of Coppet. 

Ferney is so bound up with the memory of 
Voltaire that we were obliged to think of the 
bitter scoffer, whether we would or no; but we 
did not turn aside even to read his inscription 
over the door of the church, which he was so 


60 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


generous as to erect to God, if indeed it be still 
there. We have the same feeling towards his 
brother scoffer, Rousseau, when we come upon 
memorials of him, as we do here even in this 
city of the stern Calvin. We pass the lovely 


little island every day, which bears his name, 


and his statue erected upon it; but as we cross 
the long bridge we never turn aside with pilgrim 
reverence to do homage even to the acknowl- 
edged genius of the man, whose warped prin- 
ciples had so much to do with bringing about 
the most fearful tragedy of modern times, __ 








THE “ALLEES” OF ANTWERP. 


WueEn I was a child of ten, a book of English 
engravings, whose exceeding beauty I have 
scarcely ever seen equalled since, was made a 
present to a member of the family. . Among 
these engravings was an unusually fine one of 
the approach to the city of Antwerp, by the wide 
mouth of the Scheldt. This picture fascinated 
my gaze above all the others; and I was never 
weary of poring over its attractive points. Not 
that I had artistic taste enough to appreciate the 
fine rendering of water and sky, of the high Dutch 
vessels in the offing, or of the airy-looking spires 
and church-towers. But somehow I was magnet- 
ized by its rare beauty, and fancied that this Ant- 
werp must be the centre of an earthly paradise. 
‘My geography was so much at fault, that I actu- 
ally did not know whether it was a European or 
Asiatic city: with the soft richness that seemed 
to hang about the picture, I had mixed ideas of 
the Orient, and was disposed to think it must be 
somewhere in the classic East or South: for if 


my modern geography was rather shaky, I at 
(61) 


62 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


least could read Latin a little, and knew more 
about Lemnos and Chios, and the Peloponnesus, 
than I did about the geography of the West. 

But deep as was my interest and mystification, 
it never occurred to me to make known my per- 
pléxity, and have it removed, which, of course, a 
question would have been potent to accomplish. 
It is very strange how children make caches for 
themselves, carefully concealing their anxiety 
about what really they have an intense desire to 
know. They do not forget their cache, but in 
thought continually return to it, never impart- 
ing to any one a suspicion of its existence; until 
some day the perplexity is removed, and all is 
made plain to them. This was the case with my 
picture, over which I think I mystified myself 
for a couple of years. And now, here is the Ant- 
werp of my childish fancy—not so oriental-look- 
ing, not so soft and beautiful, not such an ex- 
quisite mingling of sky and water; and yet the 
Antwerp of my young imaginings. 

All the cities of Holland have a beauty of 
their own, which makes them unlike other cities 
of the Continent. We have been quite capti- 
vated with the quiet loveliness of The Hague. 
We have rocked in the harbor of Rotterdam, and 
admired the Dutch quaintness of the old com- 








THE “ ALLEES” OF ANTWERP. 63 


mercial emporium. We have sauntered and 
driven about the embowered streets of Am- 
sterdam, crossing as many of its innumerable 
bridges as we could compass, gazing up their 
pretty vistas, and owning it to be quite worthy 
of its name, “the Northern Venice.” We have 
grown patriotic at Leyden, and done honor to 
the heroes of the Dutch Republic; and at the lit- 
tle city of Delf, we have been tempted to burden 
ourselves with a load of its pretty ware. Ant- 
werp is unlike these other cities in some re- 
spects, and has marked characteristics of its 
own. As we drove about its wide, clean streets, 
we found in the most important of them what 
are there called “ad/ées.”” These consist of two 
asphalt-paved strips, of some fifteen feet in width, 
having close rows of shade-trees on either side, 
and furnished throughout with iron benches, and 
occasional little tables. The shade is so dense 
that it is almost impervious to the sun at mid- 
day. Here the dJourgeois classes take their ease, 
their fresh air, and their beer. Especially are 
they the resort of women, who bring their chil- 
dren, and their baskets of work, and their din- 
ners, and spend the day, with as much apparent 
freedom as if they were in their own home. 

The license allowed the working-classes abroad, 


64 4 HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


and the provision made for their comfort, I have 
had occasion to speak of before. Democratic 
America does not provide, in her municipal 
arrangements, for the accommodation and com- 
fort of the poor, as do the monarchical countries, 
The gardens and parks of English, and especially 
of Continental cities, seem to be kept up for the 
entertainment of those who have no gardens of 
their own. In the finest pleasure-grounds of 
Paris, | saw a woman, one day, with her patterns 
all spread on the benches, cutting out a pair of 
knickerbockers for one of the six little fellows 
capering about her. The police look on com- 
placently, and never say them nay. Between 
these “ad/ées,’ and on either side, are carriage- 
ways, making a very wide and airy street. 

One of our most vivid associations with Ant- 
werp was, of course, its close connection with 
Flemish art; and one of our earliest errands 
was to the Cathedral, to see the two famous 
pictures of Rubens, “The Elevation” and “The 
Descent from the Cross.’”’ I had heard some 
friends say, that they were fully repaid for hav- 
ing crossed the ocean, simply by a sight of these 
pictures. We did not realize this. Two of our 
party had been here before, but not one of us 


es 4 








THE “ ALLEES” OF ANTWERP. 65 


was able to get up any rhapsodical enthusiasm. 
To deny that the pictures are fine, would be to 
condemn our artistic taste utterly; but the char- 
acteristic gorgeousness of Rubens manifests it- 
self as much here, where all should be severe, and 
chaste, and subdued, as in the magnificent Medi- 
cean pictures of the Louvre. The Mary and the 
Martha of “The Descent” were portraits of his 
two beautiful wives, and are very exquisite. 

The perfunctory way in which guides hurry 
one over pictures and through galleries, is very 
unsatisfactory and annoying. Great curtains 
were suspended over these two pictures, and not 
an inch would the guide withdraw them, till he 
had summoned up all the tourists in the Ca- 
thedral, arranged them in rows before the can- 
vas, and then gone about between these rows, 
with the precision of a beadle, and taken up the 
prescribed fee from every one of them. And 
then, there were no lingering examinations al- 
lowed. Every tourist was supposed to desire to 
look upon them just so long; when the fact was, 
that some American ladies there turned upon 
their heel, with scarcely half a glimpse, whilst 
we would fain have sat before “ The Descent” for 
at least one ungrudged hour. 


5 


66 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


In one of the little side chapels, in another 
church, we saw the tombs of the artist and his 
two wives. The beautiful marble figures were be- 
ing very vigorously scrubbed by two stout men. 

We drove to Rubens’ house, in one of the prin- 
cipal streets. It has been very grand in its day, 
and even yet, its architecture is impressive; for 
the Master, Peter Paul, lived in a very princely 
way, and accumulated an immense fortune. We 
were glad to find, in one of the small squares, an 
impressive statue of Van Dyck, whose airy, cool 
canvases are in such striking contrast with the 
heavy richness of Rubens and Rembrandt, and 
other Masters of the Flemish School. 

Nothing in Antwerp surprised us more than 
what we saw in our drives about its very exten- 
sive wharves. Nowhere, in all the cities of the 
Continent, did we see such immense lumber- 
yards as we find here. One would think that 
the forests of Norway had been levelled to fur- 
nish them. We also came to the conclusion that 
the oil-wells of the United States had emptied 
themselves upon the borders of the Scheldt. 
We positively saw acres covered as thickly with 
coal-oil barrels as it was possible for them to be. 
Had we not seen it with our own eyes, we could 








THE ‘‘\ ALLEES” OF ANTWERP. 67 


scarcely have believed that so much petroleum 
was exported to Europe. 

This Dutch language is most amusing: but 
Holland is a pleasant land, notwithstanding 
its ridiculous language; and the order, clean- 
liness, thrift, prosperity, and happiness, which 
everywhere met our observation, wonderfully 
commended the country to us. In these respects 
it is in strong contrast to parts of Germany 
through which we travelled. But one cannot 
help wondering, as one thinks of the influence 
of this land upon Medizval Art, what the old 
Flemish Masters found here to feed their imagin- 
ation. Pale skies, flat lagunes, sluggish canals, 
squat trees, monotonous pastures, sleek cows, 
lazy canal-boats, stocky men and women in blue 
blouses and short petticoats, and little two-year- 
old tots, with coats, waistcoats, and trousers cut 
exactly after the fashion of grown men, are not 
the material out of which to construct Holy Fam- 
ilies, ecstatic St. Cecilias, pathetic Magdalenes, 
severe Junos, magnetic Venuses, or. adorable 
Dianas! And yet such have had their birth here. 
The first artists who ever used oils in painting 
were the Flemish Van Eycks. 

And what is there here, to inspire that enthu- 


68 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


siasm for liberty, and that readiness to die for it, 
which of old characterized all the Low Coun- 
tries ? We look to mountain lands, for our Bruces 
and our Tells. And yet these flats of the Neth- 
erlands have given the world as grand heroes as 
ever have died for faith and country. i} 





it lan si 1 py a rl a al te et el aa ae RR el eee 


a a a a a TS a Sl a Sa Se 





= —— _ outs = eo. a ne ge A a oes 


@ 
i swe eT iieied 
Sl: wap ey 


+ 








’S GRAVENHAGE 


OUDE DOELEN. 


Our linguistic accomplishments had need to be 
of a much greater range than they are, to get 
along with any comfort in these curious old 
Low Countries. English, French, German, and 
Latin availed us little or nothing; and what 
seemed to us the absurdity of High and Low 
Dutch, has been a matter of constant amuse- 
ment, as we tried to make it out in the shop 
windows or on the street signs; it looked like 
English knocked into pt; and we found it im- 
possible to hold any but the most meagre com- 
munication with the inhabitants. Nobody but 
the waiters at the hotels seemed to understand 
any tongue but their own; it was scarcely less 
difficult for us to carry on shopping transactions 
at The Hague or Amsterdam, than it would have 
been at Shanghai. We had to show our money, 
and questioningly hold our fingers up, to find out 
the number of pieces we were to pay. Their 
spelling is so farcical our eyes could not get 


used to it. Awyksdaalder, Kwart gulden, dubbeltje, 
(69) 


70 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


were coins which we did not pretend to name. 
The Professor was always thanking his stars 
that it had not been his fate to have been a 
school-boy in Holland, and have to be taught 
spelling there. 

We could not divine why the old city should 
be called ’s Gravenhage, till by some research we 
found out that this was the name of a hunting- 
seat, built in 1200, by an old Dutch Count, and 
called “The Count’s Hedge,” which the word 
signifies. : 

Our place of abode while in La Haye, as the 
French call it, was at the Oude Doelen, immedi- 
ately opposite the Zournooiveld. This Oude Doelen, 
or Vieux Doelen, as it is more generally called, 
was founded in 1407; and as the city owes its 
origin to a hunting-lodge, it is natural enough 
that Doelen—the “Shooting - Place’ — should 
come to be the name of the house erected for 
the knights who met together here, from all 
parts of the Low Countries, to amuse and per- 
fect themselves in cross-bow practice. These 
knights owned St. George as their patron; and 
they belonged to a guild called the “ Brother- 
hood of St. George.” The Vieux Doelen is still 
surmounted by a figure of their old patron saint. 

The Zournooiveld is a large park, which was 








’S GRAVENHAGE. vai 


the tournament-ground in the olden days. It re- 
mains much as it was, being as thickly crowded 
as a forest with ancient-looking trees. As arch- 
ery was the favorite form of manly exercise 
when the Doelen was established, the hotel bore 
on its front, as a sort of escutcheon, the bull’s- 
eye of the target, which is what the Dutch word 
doel means. It is only within later years that 
the bull’s-eye has been removed. 

There is something very quaint and curious 
about this old haunting-place of the Doelen 
knights. Its architecture is somewhat modern- 
ized; but it was evidently built for posterity, 
and looks as if it might last for five hundred 
years to come. It was a matter of no little in- 
terest to us, that this very hotel had been the 
home of Peter the Great while he was learning 
ship-building in Holland. And G 
tickled their imaginations by believing that 





and Julia 


their respective apartments were each, the one 
used by his Imperial Majestv. Great pride is 
taken in the historic register of the hotel, and 
travellers are shown the long list of royal per- 
sonages who have, within the last five hundred 
years, honored, as guests, its walls. It is situated 
in one of the most beautiful parts of the city, 
near the Voorhout, and not very far from the gates 


42 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


that lead into “ Het Bosch,” the beautiful park, 
which is as free, as a drive and pleasure-haunt— 
to all the populace, as to the king himself. 
There is no question but that The Hague is 
one of the most attractive cities on the Conti- 
nent. There is a quaintness and old-world life 
about it that is captivating. Its stout burghers, 
stamping about in their old-fashioned boots, and 
the antiquely dressed women, with their frilled 
caps, and the flaxen-haired children, with their 
short red petticoats and puffy knickerbockers, all 
look as if they had just stepped out of Teniers’ 
or Ruysdael’s pictures. And O! the beautiful 
cleanliness of pavement, and street, and espla- 
nade, and bridges, and everything ! The canals 
and waterways so fill the city that they make it 
sparkle all over: one catches glints of their 
light wherever one looks. In Amsterdam we 
were all the time catching charming outlooks 
from some of its three hundred bridges. There 
are drives, and promenades, closely lined with 
trees, all along the banks of these canals; and 
we observed in The Hague, the same dense rows 
of fine leafage, under which the inhabitants 
walk uncovered at noontide, and the same sur- 
prise of beautiful water-effects that would be 
worthy of note in the city of the gondolas. 








’*S GRAVENHAGE. 73 


There seemed to be absolutely no shabby build- 
ings in La Haye. The houses are all stately, 
many-storied, many-balconied, light-colored, and 
kept with such perfection of neatness as to con- 
vey the impression that their outsides had all 
just been scoured. The curious Continental 
custom (the result, no doubt, of their French 
windows, which open to the floor like a double 
door), of having the old-fashioned Venetian 
blind hung on the outside, is universal here; one 
rarely sees a house without them,—a proof to us 
that they never had experience on the Continent, 
of the wild winds and rain that we know of at 
home, which would surely dash these swaying 
talousies to pieces. 

Het Bosch is one of the few extensive parks 
we have seen on the Continent, where Nature is 
permitted to have “‘her own sweet will.” The 
trees look old enough to have been primeval 
forest; the drives through them are miles in ex- 
tent, kept in fine order, and yet nothing is so 
trimly dealt with as to interfere with a certain 
sense of natural freedom, which to an American 
eye is delightful. The Park terminates at 
the simple, yet beautiful summer-palace of the 
Queens of Holland; so called, we suppose, 
because, for a short period every summer, the 


74, A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


female sovereigns of the Dutch rusticate here. 
The style of architecture is domestic and unpre- 
tending; it is set in a bouquet of flower-parterres; 
for what would Holland be without its flowers 
and its tulip-beds? We were charmed that the 
pretty Dutch maiden, who took us all over the 
royal residence, could, as she said, talk English; 
but her English only comprehended a few sen- 
tences, and was rather a droll jargon. There 
was an exquisite Chinese drawing-room, in which 
every appointment was as suggestive of the 
central Flowery Kingdom as if we were going 
through a royal palace in Pekin. I came sud- 
denly upon a full-length portrait (the only thing 
that was not Chinese in the apartment), and ex- 
claimed to the Professor, “That ane is 
John pee Motley !” 

“ Out, oui,” responded our fair-haired guide; 
and then in some lingo, a mixture of Dutch, 
English, and French, she managed to tell us 
that here Motley had resided; which we had no 
trouble in recalling, as we remembered that the 
historian of the Dutch Republic had had apart- 
ments here allotted him by the Queen, whilst he 
was writing the history of her country. The 
Japanese drawing-room was even daintier than 
the Chinese one,—walls, chairs, sofas, indeed 








1S GRAVENHAGE. — 78 


everything being covered with white, hand-em- 
broidered satin. Nothing in the palace struck 
us as more beautiful than the immense circular 
ball-room, with its richly inlaid floor, as smooth 
and glistening as plate-glass, on which dancers 
had spun their rounds for over two hundred 
years. These inlaid polished floors quite bewitch 
us women, and make us think the most delicate 
Moquette or Aubisson vulgar in comparison. 

The Hague is quite rich in museums, picture- 
galleries, and antiquities of all sorts. The long 
commerce, in the old day, of the Dutch traders 
with the East, has filled it with much that is 
Oriental; but as Japan seems but our next-door 
neighbor now, we were less interested than peo- 
ple of 4 century ago, with the treasures brought 
by the old galleons from the seas of the Orient. 
Our young Doctor forgot his American zi/ ad- 
miraré role, and grew excitedly enthusiastic over 
Rembrandt’s “School of Anatomy.” He “had 
seen nothing like it to warm up his blood!” I 
could only turn away from it with the same horror 
I should feel in a dissecting-room; for its realism 
was only too perfect. Paul Potter’s Bull did 
not carry off our enthusiasm in any Europa 
fashion; though his shiny coat did fill us with 
something of a marvel. 

But after all, it was not picture-galleries not 


76 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


museums that stole our hearts at The Hague, 
and inclined us to linger there indefinitely, In- 
finitely more were we stirred by the heroic asso- 
ciations we had with the struggles of these brave 
Hollanders for the attainment of that very liberty 
which we in our blessed country never know how 
to value aright, till we come over to the old world, 
and learn at what cost such men sold their lives to 
winit. How could we traverse these Low Coun- 
tries, and not find ourselves crooning passages 
from Sir Henry Taylor’s “ Phillip Van Arte-- 
veldte” ? How could we pass through Leyden, 
and not recall the day when Boisot’s fleet raised 
its siege? The eyes of William the Silent seemed 
ever watching us beneath these pale skies. Here, 
within sight of our hotel, was the spot where 
Barneveldt was executed: Egmont and Count 
Horn were names that made the very air vital. 
Nevertheless we were content to relegate these 
noble spirits of the elder day to the grand 
shades, while we walked and drove up and 
down these deliciously cool and breezy and im- 
maculate streets and esplanades, delighting our- 
selves with the quaintness and the old sixteenth- 
century look of its present inhabitants. I do not 
believe that there is a city on the Continent, 
unless it be Geneva, where we could more charm- 
ingly pass a restful summer month. 








ST. BERNARD’S DIJON. 


“HOTEL Du Jura!” “Hotel de la Cloche!” 
“ Hotel du Nord!” were the exclamations with 
which we were saluted by fifty of the votture 
drivers, as we stood upon the platform in the 
quaint old city of Dijon. With the beautiful 
range of the Jura Mountains before our eyes, 
how could we resist the entreaties of the little 
cocher who kept shouting “Hotel du Jura!” in 
our stunned ears? So to Hotel du Jura we com- 
mitted ourselves and our belongings. We have 
been travelling all day along the Cote d’Or, the 
richest and most picturesque part of Burgundy, 
where we have seen scarcely anything but leagues 
of vineyards, with every now and then an old 
French town, or an antiquated hamlet, or the 
towers of an ancient chateau, breaking the mo- 
notony of the landscape. 

What a dear, strange, old-world city this an- 
cient Dijon is! How intensely provincial, and 
how wholly French; and how difficult to realize, 
though it is so quaint, that it was an inhabited 


place before the Roman invasion of Britain! I 
(77) 


78 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


picked up, on the little drawing-room table, a 
small French book, in which I found it asserted 
that one of Cesar’s legions had its camp here, 
and that the very name, Dijon, is but a corrup- 
tion of the name of the tribe of Gauls who in- 
habited this region. Be that as it may, it is cer- 
tainly one of the oldest towns in France. 

One of the first things on which my eyes rested 
in looking out of my chamber windows, at the 
Hotel du Jura, was the tall, gray tower of the 
old Castle of Burgundy, where, so many hundred 
years ago, the ancient dukes of that name held 
such lordly court. Don’t think for a moment 
that I am going to open my Guide-books, and 
bore you with stories of Philip the Bold, and 
Jean-Sans-Peur, and other great knights of the 
golden days of Burgundian power and prowess. 
Here in the historic old cathedral we found their 
tombs, rich with the splendors of medizeval carv- 
ing, and not so very much the worse for the wear 
of half a dozen centuries. How very young we 
Americans are compelled to own ourselves, as 
we stand under the fretted roofs, and beside 
time-gnawed tombs, that were old before it ever 
entered the head of the Genoese navigator to 
search for his new world! 

But Dijon has a closer hold upon us than any 





SZ. BERNARDS DIFON. 70 


home of the old Gauls, or any of Czesar’s legions, 
or any relics of the Burgundian princes, could 
establish ; a hold that had to do with some 
of the tenderest memories of the Christian 
heart. Here it was that St. Bernard was born; 
or, at least, so closely in the neighborhood of 
Dijon, that the claim of its being his birth- 
place is admitted: and a fragrant sanctity still 
so clings to the memory of this old saint, that 
the most detaining grasp which the ancient city 
lays upon the passing traveller is, that with- 
in its shadow he was born, here he lies buried, 
and here is the richest mural monument ever 
raised to his memory. We feel a certain rever- 
ence for the inhabitants of this old city that they 
have so honored their saint as to erect so hand- 
some and costly a memorial, one that will com- 
pel them, to all generations, to keep in some 
degree before their minds the holy life and good 
deeds of the man whom it commemorates, and 
thus be one of those stones that has a sermon 
in it. 

St. Bernard was the most wonderful man of 
his time—a reformer who deserves to divide the 
honors with St. Augustine and Luther; not only 
did he cleanse the corruptions of the Church, 
and purge the monastic orders of their vileness 


80 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


but he was also the umpire between kings, the 
counsellor of popes, and tried in a better way 
than Hildebrand to hunt out heresies. But 
so eloquent and persuasive was he in all this, 
that he obtained the name of “Doctor Melliflu- 
ous.” 

To find his monument, which is the peculiar 
pride of Dijon, we turned aside from the broad 
street on which our hotel is situated, and passed 
up the narrow and tortuous streets, lined with 
dark gray houses, so high as to obscure the day- 
light, which wind their way through the old city, 
and came out upon the small square, in the cen- 
tre of which the monument stands. It is built 
of white marble, is circular, stately, and massive. 
It is surmounted by a colossal figure of St. Ber- 
nard, in his Doctor’s robes, with an open volume in 
his hand, and his arm stretched abroad, as in per- 
suasive exhortation. As we stood there, under the 
silence of this rich August morning, and looked up 
at the far-gazing eye, and the parted lips above us, 
we almost fancied we could hear the mellifluous 
voice that still keeps ringing down the centuries. 
We thought of his mother, the beautiful Lady 
Aletta, on the occasion of whose death he wrote 
his first Latin hymn, which has been preserved 
to us, whose first verse we may be excused for 





ST. BERNARDS DIFON. 81 


quoting, both for the music of its medizval Latin, 
and for its Christian faith: 


‘*Salve, mundi salutare, 
Salve, salve, Jesu care! 
Cruci tuz aptare 
Vellem vere, tu scis quare, 
Da mihi tui copiam, 
Ac si przsens sis, accedo, 
Immo te presentem credo ; 
O quam mundum hic te cerno! 
Ecce tibi me prosterno, 
Sis facilis ad veniam.” 


In a circle of niches, below the platform on 
which the saint stands, are life-sized statues of 
his immediate disciples, and Abbots of Clair- 
vaux, the monastery which he established. 

Because St. Bernard wrote musical verse as 
well as musical prose, he is often confounded 
with another Burgundian monk of the same 
name, who never attained to the honor of canon- 
ization—Bernard of Cluny. This second Ber- 
nard was a different order of man from his 
namesake, not nobly born, not celebrated for 
learning, wisdom, power, or any of the things 
that make men great. And yet, at this day, his 
name is better known over Christendom, and his 
memory is held in tenderer veneration than that 


of his canonized brother monk. The legacy of 
6 


82 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


his Latin hymns is one of the rich possessions 
of the Church; for, to what part of the civilized 
world can one go, and yet get beyond the strains 
of “ Jerusalem the Golden,” “Jerusalem, my hap- 


’ 


py home,” and “O Mother, dear Jerusalem,” all 
of which are taken from his “Zaus Patrie Ce- 
lestis,’ and his “ Urbs beata Hirusalem.” It is 
strange that when the writing of hymns was so 
rare a thing in the old times, two hymnists of 
the same name should be contemporaries in the 
same Cote d’Or of Burgundy. We did not find 
that Bernard of Cluny was buried in or near 
Dijon, but the “golden country” must have ex- 
ercised some rhythmic influence on them both. 
Dijon itself is worth saying a word about. It 
has a few wide streets, as is the case with all 
European capitals. This is a feature of these old 
cities, that has everywhere taken us by surprise. 
There are multitudes of narrow streets in them 
all, so narrow indeed, and crooked, that in going 
about among them, our drivers are constantly in 
the habit of cracking their whips as loudly as 
possible on entering one, to give warning that 
no Carriage must enter at the other end till they 
are through, as to pass one another would be an 
impossibility. One could almost shake hands 
from opposite windows. The great broadway 





ST. BERNARDS DIFON. 8 3 


of Dijon throws into insignificance the width of 
our New York Broadway, or indeed that of any 
American city I know of. It is gay with shops, 
and there is an air of bustle and business about 
them all. It is a great wine depot for all Bur- 
gundy. 

Nothing could exceed the brightness, the gay- 
ety, the zonchalance of this central street, as we 
saw it under gaslight. The French are the least 
seclusive people in the world: to use James Rus- 
sell Lowell’s word,—they are the most “dis- 
privacied”’ of all nations. All their household 
occupations go on at the edge of the ¢rottoir, 
under the eye of every passer-by. They break- 
fast, lunch, and sup out at their own open doors; 
the men smoke, drink their vx ordinatre, and read 
their newspaper there; the women gossip, and 
patch, and darn, and discipline their children 
out of doors. We had evidence of this in abun- 
dance in our strolls. Everywhere there were 
family groups, the father hobnobbing in the full 
tide of camaraderie with half a dozen boon com- 
panions, and as many bottles between them; on 
his knee a little two-year-old, who had fallen 
asleep there; walking up and down on the pave- 
_ment, the bare-headed mother, with a tiny baby 
in her arms, whom she was singing to sleep with 


8 4 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


a French lullaby, and two or three older children 
trolling their playthings under the feet of the 
passers-by. Tubs, with little trees of arbor-vite, 
cedar, and various kinds of evergreens, lined the 
pavement’s edge; sometimes there would be 
two rows of such tubs, and between them the 
domestic party, occupying themselves with all 
the freedom which we are accustomed to indulge 
in within walls, and behind close-shut doors. 
Yet anything more orderly, and more reasonably 
quiet, and evincing more homely comfort and 
happiness, we never saw in any city streets. 

St. Bernard is not the only great man closely 
associated with Dijon. The court preacher of 
‘Louis XIV., Bossuet, was born here. But we 
«ould find no trace of his birthplace or his grave. 
‘This, too, was the birthplace of Crebillon; but 
‘we were able to discover nothing of him. We 
found many handsome public buildings and old 
‘historic places, which had more or less interest 
for us. But much as we might care to ransack 
these old memorial spots of the past, and to 
decipher ‘half-obliterated Latin inscriptions of 
princes and dukes, who held wide sway in their 
time, the reader will thank me for not compelling 
him to thread :these old streets, and grope these 
dusty aisles. 








ST. BERNARD'S DIFON. 8 5 


As it is, we will turn our backs to-morrow 
upon this quaint old city, and this Frenchiest of 
French provinces, with pleasant memories of our 
stroll about its streets and environs; most agree- 
ably impressed with the gayety and apparent 
happiness and contentment of its outdoor-living 
inhabitants. 


THE BEST THING IN PARIS. 


WE have been going up and down, and through 
and through, this gay, beautiful, and wicked city, 
until our eyes are weary with seeing, our ears 
with hearing, and our minds with searching for 
expressions of admiration that shall not be out- 
worn and commonplace. We have driven about 
the festive streets in our brisk little voztures, till 
we have grown utterly tired of the splendid 
shop-windows, so characteristic of Parisian life; 
outside, all grandeur and glitter; inside, almost 
nothing that would indicate a shop; a bit of 
a counter, a few boxes, a chair or two, and a 
French woman, with the typical black hair and 
eyes, long, straight nose, and somewhat insig- 
nificant chin. 

We have visited the grand churches that seem 
little more suggestive of reverence and worship 
than the splendid Academy of Music at the end 
of Rue de l’Opera; we have walked the galleries 
of the Louvre, till we have grown bewildered 
with Murillos, Correggios, Del Sartos, Rem- 


brandts, Rubenses, and the works of scores of 
(86) 








THE BEST THING IN PARIS. 87 


other masters. We have wandered through the 
intricacies of the Bois de Boulogne; we have sat 
in the Sainte Chapelle; we have listened to the 
bell of the Saint Germain du Roi, whose tongue 
gave the signal for the beginning of the slaughter 
of St. Bartholomew; we have strolled, somewhat 
disgusted, along the galleries of the Luxembourg, 
striving not to see how little regard the living 
artists of France have for the proprieties of life. 
We have spent hours and hours searching out the 
wonders of Versailles, marvelling at the madness 
with which the money of the French people had 
there been squandered, and finding in its reckless 
splendors almost a full excuse for the French 
Revolution. We have grown sentimental over 
poor Marie Antoinette, her Petit-Trianon, her 
Swiss cottage, and her other royal toys. Truth 
to tell, we have seen the most in the way of shows 
and sights, pictures and statuary, parks and gar- 
dens, that Paris has to display to her thousands of 
visitors; and yet, after all these had been visited, 
we had not seen the best thing in Paris. 

We were sitting on one of the balconies of our 
pretty hotel, looking down with a despairing sort 
of sorrow upon the street below, where all the 
shops were open, and a brisker traffic was going 
on than is even common to a week-day, for it 


6 


88 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


was Sunday afternoon. The pavements were 
thronged with gay passers in their holiday attire, 
and at the doors of every glittering shop was 
the inevitable little circular, white-topped table, 
with its group of men and women, sipping v2z 
ordinaire, eating grapes, and smoking cigarettes. 
The people all looked happy and at their ease, 
and had it not been Sunday, the sight would 
have been an attractive one. Just then the Pro- 
fessor stepped upon the balcony, and handed me 
a card of invitation to one of the McAll Mission 
meetings, in the Rue de St. Honoré, at five 
o’clock. We determined at once to accept it, 
and were soon pressing our way through the gay 
crowds to the place indicated. 

We found at the door a very earnest, elderly 
man, whom we had met the week before at 
Lucerne, with his hand full of leaflets, which he 
was offering to every passer who seemed inclined 
to stop. We entered the room used as a chapel, 
directly from the street—a rather low-browed, 
very plain apartment, as simply furnished for 
the purposes of worship as it could well be. 
(We were afterwards told that a zealous knot of 
ladies in Philadelphia pay ten thousand francs 
a year for the rent of this room, for the use of 
the McAll Mission.) 








THE BEST THING IN PARIS. 89 


When we entered, we found the room about 
half full of French people, of the dourgeozs class, 
not by any means, however, of the poorest sort. 
There was an occasional bareheaded woman; 
for all women of the artisan class go bonnetless 
to church and everywhere else—and here and 
there a man in the universal blue blouse; but 
we were glad to observe that almost all were 
just such people as we had left walking the 
streets, and laughing and chatting at the shop 
doors. Some eager English ladies were busily 
going about, seating the incomers, and supply- 
ing them with little French hymn-books, filled 
with translations of Moody and Sankey hymns. 
There was a small cabinet organ, at which 
another English lady presided; and a simple 
desk on a slightly raised platform, answered as 
a pulpit. Ina little while the room was entirely 
filled, and true to the moment of appointment, 
three French ministers entered, and took their 
. places on the platform. I had never heard a 
French minister preach, and had never under- 
stood the wonderful power which Adolph Monod 
used to exercise, twenty-five years ago, over the 
Professor, who was accustomed to hear him in 
the Oratoire. But I learned his secret yesterday. 
French preaching and French oratory are en- 


90 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


tirely different from that of other nationalities; 
and have a power, a piquancy, a verve of their 
own, quite in contrast with all that to which we 
had been accustomed. Perhaps there were pe- 
culiar reasons why we should enjoy this intensely 
fervid French eloquence. 

The short opening prayer was electric in its 
earnestness. One saw instantly that the speaker 


threw himself, with all the fervor of his Gallic 


nature, into the service. And when he gave out 
the hymn, repeating a stanza at a time, with 
lifted hand, and eyebrows knit with the intens- 
ity of his pleading tone, a subdued thrill ap- 
peared to sway the audience. There seemed 
real eloquence in these simple utterances: 


‘* Viens, ame qui pleure, 

Viens a ton Saveur ; 

Dans tes tristes heures, 
Dis-lui ta douleur. 

Fais tout bas ta plainte 
A ce bon Jesus. 

Parle-lui sans crainte, 
Et ne pleure plus.” 


Not one voice was silent. When he took his 
text—“Le sang de son Fils Jesus Christ, nous purifie 
de tout péche’’—and rang it in his clear voice over 
and over again, he seemed the very embodiment 
of intense persuasiveness. He was a typical 





§ 
ij 


eee ae ee 





THE BEST THING IN PARIS. QI 


Frenchman, the black hair combed straight up 
from his forehead, the dark penciled eyebrow 
the burning eyes, the straight nose, the mobile 
mouth, the rapid play of feature, the restless 
hands, every finger of which seemed capable of 
conveying some different phase of expression, 
the entire abandon of the whole man, flinging 
himself, like a strong swimmer, into the depths 
of a foaming current, and breasting it with a 
self-forgetfulness that concerned itself only with 
the point to be reached; and that was, that every 
soul before him should feel the force of the ex- 
pression to which he constantly turned—“ Le 
sang ade son Fils Jesus Christ, nous purifie de tout 
péché.” No one who listened could doubt fora 
moment that the speaker felt every word that he 
was endeavoring, with such tender vehemence, 
to impress upon his audience. 

The minister who followed him, in a short ex- 
hortation of fifteen minutes, was a type of the 
same mercurial eloquence, which seems to be 
the kind best fitted to sway the French mind. 
He was an eminently handsome man, and I have 
rarely ever seen in the pulpit, such grace of man- 
ner and movement, combined with such an utter 
absence of self-consciousness. If the French 
Protestant Church can boast many such min- 


92 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


isters, we do not know why it should not have a 
second Reformation greater than that inaugu- 
rated by Calvin and Farel. Every hair of his 
black head seemed instinct with action; and he 
at least produced upon the minds of us Ameri- 
cans, who are schooled to a calmer sort of elo- 
quence, the feeling that he aimed to have every 
soul before him brought to submit to the Gospel 
of Christ that very afternoon. Delightful sing- 


ing followed, in which all the audience, bonnet- | 


less women, men in blue blouses, even the little 
sabotted children, joined with a heartiness that 
was calculated to make one hope that the per- 
suasions of the ministers had had their full 
effect. Still another short address followed, and 
if I had not been so magnetized by the two 
speakers who had gone before, I should have 
been as fully moved by the rapid, passionate ut- 
terance, the vivid picturing, and the eager tones 
of this last speaker, all varying somewhat from 
those which had preceded them, but still of the 
same general type. It seemed to us that we had 
heard more to stir men’s souls in that small 
chamber, on the Rue St. Honoré, than in all the 
grand cathedral services we had elsewhere at- 
tended. 

As we went out, we were presented at the door 











THE BEST THING IN PARIS, 93 


to the son of the Hon. Baptist Noel, who is one 
of that band of enthusiastic Englishmen who are 
working with Mr. McAll in his noble efforts to 
evangelize France. 

As we walked back to our hotel through the 
gay crowds of thoughtless Sabbath-breakers, we 
could not forbear turning to each other, and 
saying: “Surely we have just seen the best thing 
in Paris!” 


THE CRYPTS OF CANTERBURY 
CATHEDRAL. 


WHAT a quaint, mouldy old city is this capital 
of the ancient kingdom of Canturia, or Kent! 
We were prepared for antiquity on the Conti- 
nent, which led us as far back as the beginning 
of the Christian era, and indeed to periods that 
greatly fore-dated it; but England, the land of 
our own ancestors, had seemed comparatively 
modern; and yet this antique city was the an- 
cient Durrovernum, the capital of King Ethel- 
bert’s dominions, where A.D. 596, St. Augustine 
baptized the Saxon king, and ten thousand of 
his subjects, 

We drove through a very narrow street to the 
door of what we were told was the best inn of 
the city, but finding it too crowded to admit us, 
the landlord sprang upon the box beside our 
driver and said he would guide us to another 
inn of which he was part proprietor. He landed 
us at the Fleur de Lis, where we read, carved 
above the door, “ Founded 1402.” It is impossi- 


ble to give any adequate description of such a 
(94) 








THE CRYPTS OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL. 95 


marvellous pile of old chimney-stacks and tiled 
roofs of every imaginable angle and curve which 
we saw from our windows as we overlooked the 
court-yard. They were grimy with age, and 
seemed tottering to their fall. As we tried to 
catch a glimpse of the sky over them, we were 
quite disposed to persuade ourselves that they 
were indeed built a hundred years before America 
was discovered. Theair of antiquity here is more 
pronounced than in any other city of Britain. 

We do not wonder that the English hold their 
archiepiscopal city in such reverence. The spot 
is one to which even travellers from a distant 
land make truer pilgrimages than were made in 
Chaucer’s day. Here Christianity placed its first 
foothold in Britain, This very Cathedral of Can- 
terbury holds within its circuit, what was once 
the royal palace of the first Saxon king who em- 
braced Christianity: and St. Martin’s, the old, 
low-browed, ivied church, just beyond the city’s 
precincts, was the first church erected to the wor- 
ship of the true God in the British Isles, 

We had a delightful stroll through the old 
streets, just as the waning sun was deepening 
the shadows under the curious overhanging 
stories of the quaint houses, and making the 
queer angles and recesses look still more an- 


96 4A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


cient. The very shops seemed to belong to some 
dim, distant epoch; their contents looked so very 
old-fashioned ; and the people who filled the 
streets, seemed the remnants of some former 
generation; all except the brisk, young red- 
coated soldiers, who swarmed in unusual num- 
bers. 

In the ancient days, the city had four great 
arched gateways, which marked the boundaries 
of its walls. We passed out through the arch- 
way of Westgate, for of course the city now ex- 
tends far beyond these limits. It is a handsome 
pile still, quite imposing in its vastness. It is 
very odd to observe the stolidity of the common 
people in England, and the ignorance they mani- 
fest of their immediate surroundings. I cannot 
tell how many people we addressed before we 
could find the name of the rapid little river be- 
yond Westgate, which still maintains the charac- 
ter given it by the old chronicler who writes of 
it in St. Augustine’s time. We had forgotten 
that it was the Stour, as also had the people 
whom we questioned, if they ever knew. 

At a late hour, we sauntered by gaslight in 
another direction, and found the streets gay 
with the population that was abroad, enjoying 
the beautiful night. People across the water 











THE CRYPTS OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL, 97 


have a free-and-easy zusouciance in the streets, 
that is quite novel to Americans; the women and 
the men stroll about without bonnets or hats, the 
former generally with their children about them, 
at least the ubiquitous baby everywhere in arms. 
The artisan class seem not to live within doors, 
an hour more than they can help; all kinds of 
work are carried on al fresco. Consequently 
there is a far greater degree of health among 
them, than with us—a robustness, and rotundity, 
and color, in striking contrast with our pale and 
waspish laboring people. 

The Cathedral was our main point of interest, 
and we intended on the morrow to give up a 
delicious day to its thorough exploration. But 
who can count on English sunshine? It was 
pouring when we rose, and continued to pour 
relentlessly throughout the day. However, once 
under cover of the Cathedral, it did not matter 
very much. We attended service in the choir, 
conducted by four Canons, who were led in and 
out, and up and down, by a verger, or whatever 
his official title might be, who held before him a 
golden rod, some four or five feet in length. The 
Canons did not move without this badge of office 
being carried before them. The singing of the 
choristers, of whom there was an unusually large 

7 


98 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


number, was very fine. But it seemed a “ waste 
of the ointment” to have all these Canons, and 
beadles, and choristers, and fifty gaslights for a 
meagre congregation of fifteen or twenty people, 
all of whom were American tourists, except five, 
who seemed to belong to Canterbury itself. 

After the close of the service, the official of the 
golden rod assumed the ré/e of guide, and we 
made a most satisfactory tour of the grand old 
pile. Although it is the cathedral church of the 
“Primate of all England,” it is far less splendid 
in its architecture, its carvings, its stained glass, 
and its other appointments than many of the 
other cathedrals which we had visited. It is 
less impressive than Westminster, Durham, or 
York Minster. Its vast nave and aisles are di- 
vided in such a way as to diminish their size, 
and one does not anywhere get a true conception 
of their extent. 

With due reverence we paused at the tomb of 
the Black Prince, and, as in duty bound, mused 
for a moment on his chivalry and early death. 
But one cannot be very sorry over anybody who 
has been dead six hundred years. We climbed 
the short flight of worn marble steps to the spot 
on which had rested, for three hundred years, the 
gorgeous shrine of Thomas a Becket. These 








THE CRYPTS OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL, 99 


stairs are deeply worn by the knees of pilgrims 
who crept up them from the time of his death, 
1170, till after the Reformation, when, in order to 
break up the traditionary miraculous power of 
the shrine, it was necessary to dismantle it. If 
the Canterbury pilgrims of former ages went up 
on their knees, we, irreverent American pilgrims, 
dared to make the ascent in waterproofs and 
goloshes. One of our party indulged in a bit 
of merriment that we fear would have been 
rather shocking to the good archbishop had he 
witnessed it. We had been at a relic-shop, near 
the Cathedral, and had furnished ourselves with 
various memorials—porcelain plaques and cups 
and such things. The Professor remembered 
friends at home, who, as he thought, had an 
undue reverence for everything Anglican, par- 
ticularly everything connected with the old 
cathedral worship. Devoutly, therefore, and 
with a gravity becoming a faithful member of 
the Roman Catholic Church, he deposited his 
relics upon the spot where the shrine of Thomas 
a Becket had so long been. When we entered 
the little chapel where Becket was murdered, 
and were shown the stone which the head of the 
martyr struck, as he was stabbed by the assassin, 
with controlled seriousness the small vessels and 


I0O A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS, 


platters were again laid, first one side, then the 
other, on the centre bit of blue stone, which had 
been stained by his blood. We descended to the 
crypts, where we were shown, immediately under 
the shrine, the broad slab under which the bones 
of Becket have for these hundreds of years 
peacefully reposed. Here for the third and last 
time the relics were reverently laid, then care- 
fully wrapped up, with all the acquired sanctity 
about them that the act thrice gone through 
could impart, ready now to be carried home to 
indulge the Anglo-mania which our traveller was 
disposed to make game of. So seriously had all 
this been done, that some of our fellow-tourists 
were nudging each other, amused at the devout- 
ness of this good Roman Catholic, so that in the 
end, our sham Romanist had to explain him- 
self. 

The most interesting portion of the crypts is 
that which was set apart by Queen Elizabeth for 
some of the persecuted Huguenots who sought 
refuge in England, after the massacre of St. Bar- 
tholomew. They were silk-weavers, and she al- 
lowed them to erect their looms here, and by the 
dim light of the sunken barred windows carry 
on their trade. We saw the rusty grates that 
had been put up for their comfort, just as they 


_— x he te or : 2 











THE CRYPTS OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL. joy 


left them. We thought how these cloistered 
passages had echoed to the hymns of the noble 
exiles—how these walls had heard their prayers, 
and witnessed their tears as they wept over those 
who had died for their religion, in the streets of 
the gay, wicked city left behind them. At the 
same time that Queen Elizabeth offered these 
crypts as a refuge for the Huguenots, she al- 
lowed a portion to be partitioned off as a chapel 
for their worship; and from that day until the 
present, this same chapel has been used for the 
service of the French Protestant Church, which 
still exists in Canterbury, maintained through 
all this long period by the descendants of these 
same French silk-weavers. A couple of small 
windows opened inward to the crypts where the 
looms had once stood. By stepping upon some 
blocks of stone, conveniently placed, we had a 
fair view of this most interesting place of wor- 
ship, which was neatly and appropriately fur- 
nished. Our guide had no control over this por- 
tion of the crypts; so we did not effect an en- 
trance. But it seemed holy ground, and there 
were some of us who felt quite disposed in our 
Protestant enthusiasm, to carry our little Canter- 
bury relics and devoutly lay them on the reading- 
desk of the dim chapel, where for more than 


102 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


three hundred years, God’s pure worship had 
been so strictly maintained. 

Canterbury Cathedral is full of historic tombs 
of some of the most eminent of English worthies; 
but to catalogue these, would be but to furnish 
guide-book information, and that we carefully 
eschew. There is a grand memorial window to 
dear good Dean Alford, whose beautiful life 
wore away so serenely, in the Close near by. In 
a little chapel nearly opposite the Dean’s win- 
dow, is another window of fine stained glass, 
erected by Dean Stanley, a memorial of his tour 
in the Holy Land with the Prince of Wales. The 
long vestibule or cloister, by which the Cathedral 
proper is approached, is lined with the statues 
and tombs of former archbishops and incum- 
bents. We sat down on the stone benches, and 
recalled the lives of some, whose commentaries 
and writings we had read, till we grew silent and 
subdued, under tender and pathetic memories, 
and were ready at length to go back to our 
ancient inn, like true and worthy Canterbury 
Pilgrims. 








THE HEART OF ENGLAND. 


-“Come and see us,” wrote our kind friends, 
the Charles Kingsleys, two or three years ago. 
“Come and see us in Warwickshire, where you 
will find us in an old Tudor mansion, wainscotted 
with black oak, and rich in secret stairways and 
dark closets. Come, and every step shall be on 
historic ground; for we live in the very heart of 
England.” 

So here we are in Shakespeare’s country, 
with Kenilworth, Stratford-on-Avon, Warwick 
Castle, Guy’s Cliff, Charlecote, Stoneleigh Ab- 
bey, Coombe Abbey, Edge Hill, Rugby, and Cov- 
entry—all within easy drives of this pretty water- 
ing-place of Leamington. Yes, as Rose Kings- 
ley said, this is the very heart of England, both 
geographically and historically. 

We came here two or three days ago through 
Derbyshire, where we turned aside to visit Chats- 
worth, mainly because it is considered the most 
elegant mansion-house in Britain. I will not 
weary you, who are looking over my shoulder, 
with a catalogue of its splendors, for many a 

(103) 


104 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


tourist has described them before; but I feel an 
American’s inclination to fling a gibe at his 
grace the Duke of Devonshire, for not keeping 
in his employ better-mannered lackeys. We 
think it impossible that any English tourist 
should be so treated on the estate of an Ameri- 
can gentleman, as were some of our party by the 
servants of his Grace; for, although the Duke is 
one of the richest men in England, he condescends 
to accept about fifteen thousand dollars a year, 
at least, according to the computation we made, 
of the fees taken from us and our one hundred 
fellow-tourists. Yet we were obliged to walk 
in the rain from the grand gilded gateways to 
the mansion, because, as the attendant, gorgeous 
in the Duke’s livery, told us, no umbrellas were 
allowed to be carried upon the fine portico. As 
we ascended the steps we saw a stack of them 
there. 

“JT should like to know,” flashed Anna—her 
black eyes full of republican indignation, and 
her manner commanding enough to quash the 
lackey, plush breeches, silver-laced coat, cockade, 
and all—“why you dared compel us to walk 
thus far in the rain. See, here are plenty of um- 
brellas.” 


The lackey was overpowered, and meekly said: 








THE HEART OF ENGLAND. 105 


‘Madam, it was pouring when these people 
came, and I hadn’t the heart to take their um- 
brellas from them.” | 

Two or three hours afterward, I had myself, an 
experience of singular discourtesy. Waiting un- 
der the great archway till the rest of our party, 
who were wandering over the grounds in the 
rain, should join us, we were so incommoded by 
the wet, that we sought refuge on the steps of 
the porter’s lodge, from which we were ordered 
to retire, as it was contrary to rule for visitors to 
stand there. Of course we scorned to accept such 
grudged hospitality; but the Professor was con- 
tent to swallow the insolence, for the sake of his 
delicate wife, and went back to the lodge-keeper, 
greased his palm well with silver, and so I had 
leave to sit an hour at his comfortable coal-fire. 

We are told that Chatsworth officials are fa- 
mous for such doings. 

Everything is on a very grand scale there. 
The hall, the drawing-rooms, stairways, chapel, 
boudoirs, and galleries are very superb. The 
armor and weapons of war are without number, 
the bric-a-brac of the richest description. The 
picture-gallery is disappointing, but Grinling 
Gibbons’ carvings are so superlative, that I don’t 
believe Cellini himself ever did better. Gibbons, 


106 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


you know, was the best carver in wood England 
ever produced. A sportsman’s meshed bag, filled 
with game, excited our wonder, wrought out as 
it was, with the most lifelike finish to the least 
feather. 

I promised not to write of Chatsworth, but you 
see how its beauties have witched me; but, to be 
partially true to my word, I will say nothing of 
the splendid terraced walks alive with statues, 
or the long sliding cascades, or the greenhouses 
with their four miles’ drive in the centre, or the 
Victoria Regia with its great marble tank, or the 
immense park with its twelve hundred head of 
deer. Nor will I even pause to speak of the thir- 
teen years of captivity which fell to the lot of 
Marie Stuart under the roof of the ancient Chats- 
worth. 

Leamington may be called the Saratoga of Eng- 
land, and is as pleasant a watering-place as one 
need to wish to spend the summer at. Its saline 
springs are in great repute, and its close neigh- 
borhood to so many points of interest, makes it 
most convenient for the tourist’s headquarters, 
It is full of first-class hotels. The one at which 
we are staying, has every inside comfort, as well 
as beautiful grounds, statues, fountains, walks, 
and flowers. There are streets and streets of 








THE HEART OF ENGLAND. 107 


detached villas, with pretty gardens about them, 
bearing over their arched gateways all manner of 
high-sounding names—Grosvenor Grange, Dun- 
combe Lodge, Ashleigh House, etc. 

Yesterday we drove over to Kenilworth, pass- 
ing on our way Stoneleigh Abbey. I am afraid 
I should weary you if I tried to impart some- 
thing of the enthusiasm we felt in wandering 
over these noble ruins. The situation of Kenil- 
worth is very fine. Nothing I had read, had given 
me an idea of the high natural terrace on which 
it stands, commanding a view of remarkable 
beauty and extent. How the old Saxons of 
Knight Kenelm’s day seemed to rise before us! 
How vividly the haughty Leicester sprang to 
view as we walked up and down the long ban- 
quet-hall! And as we sat half dreaming in the 
sunshine, among the sweetbriers and ivy and but- 
tercups of the great velvet-turfed court-yard, we 
needed but to close our eyes and let fancy bring 
‘ before us the pageant of its ancient splendor. 

One is amazed at the immense extent of these 
ruins, and the fine preservation of parts of them. 
We saw our faces reflected from the deep waters 
of the well. We groped through the old wine- 
vaults. We sat in the roofless audience-hall; we 
looked out of the windows of the banquet-room, 


108 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


and asked vain questions of the noisy rooks, who 
seemed to resent our presence. The grounds 
about the castle are beautifully kept, and we 
entered the premises through a walled pathway 


gorgeous with flowers. “The King’s Arms,” a. 


quaint little inn in the village, has its associa- 
tions also. Two of us stayed there overnight, 
and were shown the room where Sir Walter 
lodged for three months, while he was writing 
“Kenilworth.” There were his bed, his table, 
his chair, and all his little belongings, preserved 
with great pride and care. The bright-looking 
servant-maid, when asked about the chamber 
bearing Sir Walter’s name on the door, knew 
nothing about it, but said, when Jeanette made 
inquiry, “The mistress will be able to tell the 
lady ”—which the mistress did. Could a bright- 
witted Americanized “ Biddy” have remained in 
such ignorance? 

We drove over to Stratford-on-Avon one morn- 
ing, to steep ourselves in Shakespearian memories. 
A more golden summer day we could not have 
asked. We took Guy’s Cliff and Charlecote on 
our way, but were too eager for Stratford to 
spend much time on these intermediate places. 
The most noticeable thing at Guy’s Cliff was the 
long avenue of ancient trees, many of them now 








t 
hi 


——e 

















THE HEART OF ENGLAND. 109 


mere trunks, which led from the gateway to the 
castellated entrance. Charlecote is only inter- 
esting as having been the home of Sir Thomas 
Lucy, who would probably never have been 
heard of outside Warwickshire, but for that 
mythical poaching affair. The house has a com- 
paratively modern appearance, but the groups of 
deer scattered about the wooded park—were they 
not lineal descendants of the herd among which 
Will Shakespeare poached,—if indeed he ever 
poached at all? 

How Stratford surprised us! We expected to 
see a quaint little medizval town, with overhang- 
ing gables and Tudor chimney-stacks; and be- 
hold ! here is a thriving, busy place, full of trade, 
with gas, and telegraph wires, and railway sta- 
tions, and seven thousand inhabitants—nothing 
medizeval about it save Shakespeare’s house, the 
old church, and the very primitive inn to which 
we were guided mainly, as it seemed, because 
Washington Irving’s chair was there, and as 
Americans we would be sure to want to see it. 
But when we reached the inn, we found that it 
had nothing to commend it beyond the chair. 

Of course we took our pilgrim-way to the 
house in which Shakespeare was born; and surely 
a lowlier roof never sheltered the head of genius. 
It seems something beyond belief that the most 


TLO A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


cosmopolitan mind of the world, the least cir- 
cumscribed of human intellects, the widest-na- 
tured man that ever lived, should be nurtured 
to manhood within the narrow walls of such a 
lowly home. The house is public property now, 
and is guarded in its primitive condition with 
the utmost care. Here are collected all the 
available relics of the poet—a chair in which he 
used to sit, his signet ring, his will, the editions 
of his works that came out during his life, a 
drinking-cup sent him by Ben Jonson, his Bible, 
his autograph, his knives, his purse, and a hun- 
dred belongings beside. Many of these relics 
are of very questionable authenticity, 

I stood in the room where he first drew breath, — 
with a sort of awe and wonder; for by standing 
on tiptoe I could touch its roof. I pressed the 
floor with reverence, because the well-worn oaken 
planks were the very same over which his child- 
ish feet had pattered; and I sat on the stone 
settle in the broad, rude fireplace, where I felt 
sure he had sat many a time musing and medi- 
tating. But I could not sit there long; for sweet 
Ann Page tipped me on the shoulder; and The 
Merry Wives chatted in the kitchen; and Jack 
Falstaff roared out his fun; and Hamlet stalked 
by in his cloak; and Macbeth wrung his hands; 
and Romeo raved over his love; and the brain 








THE HEART OF ENGLAND. IIl 


creations of this. greatest of human masters, so 
thronged the meagre room, and so choked me 
with emotion, that, like King Lear, I had to turn 
and say, “ Undo this button!” 

“New Place,” the home Shakespeare built for 
himself after his final return from London, has 
nothing remaining but its firm foundation-walls, 
which are all protected by a netting of strong 
iron-wire; and it is only second in interest to the 
house in which he was born; for it was the one 
in which he died. 

I will not ask you to go to the church with me, 
to stand by the marble slab, or look up at the 
painted marble bust; for a thousand emotions 
have been poured out over them, and so I spare 
you mine. 

The day was exhausted before we finished our 
Avon ramblings, so that we were disappointed 
in getting over to Shottery. 

“Ann Hathaway—she hath a way.” And for 
Ann’s sake, we would like to have seen the old 
cottage where Will Shakespeare courted her—to 
have sat upon the ancient oaken settle, upon 
which the lovers are said to have sat together, 
and to have gathered roses from the bushes, 
whose progenitors, we could readily persuade our- 
selves, had often yielded their clusters to the witch 
ing hand that tied up poor Ophelia’s nosegays. 


AN AFTERNOON AT KENILWORTH. 


Tue English sun shone soft and bright, 
The English fields were gay; 

And Kenilworth, with sky and earth, 
Seemed keeping holiday. 


_ We wandered round the ruined walls; 
The tilting-ground we trod, 
And gathered there the daisies fair, 
That starred the velvet sod. 


We sought the turret-chamber out 
Where Amy Robsart slept; 

There trailed a screen of ivy green 
Where she had watched and wept. 


Fair troops of girls from over seas, 
Made laughter seem divine; 

As each and all danced up the hall 
Where Leicester drank his wine. 


A tourist with his strap and scrip, 
Bent o’er the mossy well, 
And dived to see what mystery 


The sunken vaults could tell. 
(112) 








AN AFTERNOON AT KENILWORTH. 113 


A gray-haired wanderer sat and mused, 
With chin upon his staff: 

A spiral stair, that led nowhere, 
Sent back a school-boy’s laugh. 


I sat apart with brooding eyes, 
And introspective thought; 

And sweet and clear, now far, now near, 
A bugle’s sound I caught. 


I heard the din of arquebus, 
The trampling cavalcade, 

The clash and clank of chain and plank, 
The lowering drawbridge made. | 


And in I saw the proud Queen Bess 
Upon her palfrey ride, 

And Leicester dight like royal knight, 
Careering at her side. 


As on they swept across the court, 
So gallant and so fair, 

Amid the rout I gazed about 
To search for Amy there. 


Just then the sad Tressilian passed, 
With but a moment’s halt: 
Wild “Flibberty ” I seemed to see 


Turning a somersault. 
8 


114 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


And when I asked him if he saw 
The Lady Amy pass, 

With saucy perk he gave a jerk, 
And tumbled on the grass. 


I heard the trembling Amy steal 
Adown the turret stair, ; 

And hasten through the early dew, 
Into the Pleasaunce fair. 


I watched her through the grotto glide, 
Behind the coppiced screen; 

And when with talk, along the walk, 
Came Leicester with the Queen,— 


A girl as fair as Amy’s self 
Here broke upon my trance, 
And put to rout with merry shout, 
My vision of romance. 


“Why ! we’ve been wandering up and down 
And searching for an hour; 
And find you now asleep, I vow, 
In Amy Robsart’s tower !”’ 


Her mirthful voice dissolved the spell 
(More potent than the Earl’s), 

And looking round, I only found 
A band of saucy girls. 





AN AFTERNOON AT KENILWORTH. 115 


The sun was hastening down the west, 
And from the crannied nooks, 

I heard the caws of noisy daws, 
And saw the wheeling rooks. 


But on Sir Walter’s pictured page, 
Sweet Amy did not seem 

To walk again in life, as when 
She crossed my waking dream. 





A BAZAAR AT WARWICK CASTLE. 


WaRwIck CASTLE is, perhaps, the finest speci- 
men of a feudal fortress that remains in England. 
Ancient and vast as it is, its great walls and. 
towers are in a state of perfect preservation, and 
give evidence of that superior workmanship in 
stone which was such a characteristic of the 
Middle Ages. Compared with its antique splen- 
dor, the magnificent showiness of Chatsworth, 
‘seems too spic-and-span; and we concluded that 
we would not be willing to exchange the grand 
group of cedars of Lebanon (brought seven hun- 
dred years ago from the Holy Land by the 
Crusaders,—whose pendant branches sweep the 
windows of the noble dining-hall), for scores of 
acres out of the vast park of the Duke of Devon- 
shire. 

Every reader of English history knows that 
Warwick Castle was founded by the daughter of 
Alfred, though a few antiquarians insist upon it 
that Czesar had something to do with its estab- 
lishment. However that may be, the oldest part 
of the castle is the great Cesar Tower—a most 
venerable piece of antiquity. The Sir Guy, 

(116) 


) 








A BAZAAR AT WARWICK CASTLE. 117 


whose memory is so bound up with the early 
history of the castle, was its first duke. He was 
a contemporary of Alfred, and many mementoes 
of him still remain in and about the castle. We. 
visited with interest Guy’s Cliff—where the old 
giant lived like a hermit for some years before 
his death—and greatly admired its long avenue 
of ancient oaks. 

The approach to the castle is through the 
quaint old town of Warwick. The walls which 
surround it are as ponderous almost as those 
around Windsor Castle, and the gray old build- 
ings elbow them just as we were surprised to see 
them doing at Windsor. It would seem that 
even royalty and nobility have never been able 
wholly to keep the democracy at a distance. We 
entered through the old stone archway, and 
paused to examine the iron-toothed portcullis 
under which we passed. The moat still sur- 
rounds the castle, but is filled with greensward 
and flowers. The approach inside the gate is by 
a broad avenue more than a hundred yards in 
length, cut through the solid rock some twenty 
feet high, so embowered over at the top as to 
exclude the sunlight. A more impressive intro- 
duction to the old feudal pile could not be 
imagined. 


118 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


It will be remembered that some dozen years 
ago a fire broke out in the castle, destroying 
thirty-three rooms. No trace of the fire is visible 
now. Restoration and rich greenery have wiped 
out even its scars. The Great Hall is, perhaps, 
the most interesting feature of the interior. Its 
proportions are very vast; so much so, that the 
great cavernous fireplace, on whose immense 
dog-irons a whole cord of wood was piled, while 
another entire cord was placed on a barrow be- 
side the huge hearth, seemed to occupy so little 
of its space as scarcely to arrest our attention. 

What a museum of antiquities is this Great Hall! 
Here are full suits of armor of every description, 
from the tenth century down, placed, like regi- 
ments of Crusaders, against and along the wall. 
Here are Sir Guy’s helmet, spear, sword, and 
buckler, of such prodigious proportions as make 
_ one quite willing to believe in his Goliath height; 
his porridge-pot, which holds twenty gallons, 
and other belongings. Helmets, suits of armor, 
shields, swords, worn by great historic person- 
ages, from Sir Guy’s day, down to that of James 
II, lined the hall, We examined with special 
interest, the armor worn by Cromwell, and the 
Doctor aspired to try on his helmet. The hall 
and the great drawing-room are very rich in 








A BAZAAR AT WARWICK CASTLE. 119 


Venetian chandeliers, buhl tables, ormolu cabi- 
nets, antique vases, and bronzes; but, above all, 
are they grand with pictures. The finest collec- 
tion of Van Dycks that exists is found in Warwick 
Castle. All the beauty and chivalry of the reign 
of Charles I. seem to look down upon one from 
the walls. The grand picture of Charles on his 
white charger, is placed with such fine effect at 
the end of a long gallery, that one feels like 
getting out of the way of the fiery steed. But 
I will pass by the pathetic portraits of Hen- 
-rietta and her sad. husband, and multitudes of 
others that captivated us, and not attempt to 
catalogue “the silvery Van Dyck.” Nor will I 
linger over the great Warwick vase, and the 
amusing rigmarole of the lame old flunkey, who 
went over and over the history of the vase, be- 
ginning at the first word of his well-learned bit 
of rote, as often as G 





mischievously inter- 
rupted him, with such barbarous mouthings of 
the Latin names as provoked us to laughter 
difficult to conceal. 

Two of our party were fortunate enough to be 
present at a charity bazaar, given in the park, 
which the rest of us were sorry to have missed, 
inasmuch as it would have given us a pleasant 
glimpse of the Warwickshire gentry, with the 


120 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


modifying admixture of all the Duke’s tenantry 
They described it to us as the prettiest Watteau 
picture they had seen in all their many sojourn- 
ings heretofore in England. 

A fly brought them to the castle gate at the 
appointed hour; and they were soon in the midst 
of a gay crowd of elegantly dressed women, 
who, with their cavaliers, were moving about 
among the flowers and shrubbery of the beau- 
tiful grounds. The tenantry of the estate seemed 
to have as much the freedom of the park as the 
gentry; and they were scattered about, under 
the trees, on the many rustic benches, enjoying 
themselves after their own fashion, while their 
children were rollicking on the grass. Pretty 
booths were erected on the green turf for fruits, 
flowers, ices, and creature-comforts of all sorts; 
for this afternoon, eating was to bea religious 
duty, and the money it was to bring in, was to 
go to the restoration of the ancient parish church. 
Restoration is the form which the charity of 
England seems everywhere to assume. The first 
object that invariably met our eye, in parish 
church and cathedral, was the alms-box begging 
for money to “restore” the building. There 
were other booths, filled with beautiful fancy 
things; and Jeanette, wishing to contribute het 








A BAZAAR AT WARWICK CASTLE. 121 


quota to the charity in hand, entered one of 
these fancy-booths. A tall, gracious-looking lady, 
of about forty-five, very plainly dressed in black, 
advanced with marked cordiality to meet her. 
(We were nowise surprised that our Jeanette 
should arrest her eye with her stately presence.) 
She begged that she might have the pleasure of 
waiting upon her, and began to show her the 
pretty things. Jeanette was in search of a pea- 
cock-fan, and this led to a pleasant discursive 
talk about peacocks. We had observed in the 
park, white peacocks, a species we had never 
seen before; and the lady went on to tell her 
customer, of the varieties and numbers kept 
about the castle. While she was supplying her 
purchaser’s wants, she was constantly interrupt- 
ed by distinguished-looking people coming up, 
and, with rather impressive greetings, making 
inquiries after her health. But she was too in- 
tent upon her vé/e of saleswoman to allow her- 
self to be detained long by any of them. 

“And now,” she said, as she delivered Jeanette’s 
package, “let me sell you a ticket or two fora 
raffle which is to come off shortly—a pretty pic- 
ture which it may be worth your while to make 
a venture for,” she went on to say, with a most 
persuasive smile. 


[22 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


Jeanette met her pleasant entreaty with a cour- 
teous declinature on the score that she was a trav- 
eller, even then on her way to the Continent. 

“Ah!” persisted the lady, coaxingly, “it will 
be an easy thing to carry it over seas with you, 
supposing you to be the fortunate winner of the 
picture; for, of course, I know you to be an 
American. And would it not be a pleasant re- 
minder to you, in your new country, of our old 
castle here?” 

Such pressure being brought to bear upon our 
American, she felt called upon, not to seem un- 
gracious, to explain why she declined to take 
the tickets. 

“In my country, many people object to raffling 
for religious or charitable purposes; and I have 
known frequently, of considerable sums being 
refused which were the proceeds of raffles, lot- 
teries, and even charity balls. You will allow 
me to say, that I happen to share this prejudice, 
as you may term it, of my country people.” 

“How much you surprise me!” said the lady, 
with unaffected interest. “How, then, do you 
ever realize anything at your charity bazaars? 
Why, if we gave up our raffling system, our bric- 
a-brac and all such pretty trash would go a-beg- 
ging for purchasers! It is the excitement of the 
raffle that stimulates our buyers.” 








A BAZAAR AT WARWICK CASTLE. 123 


“On the contrary,” said Jeanette, “we find 
that we take in more money since we have aban- 
doned this way of making it.” 

“And you really think it wrong?” persisted 
the lady, eagerly—“ wrong to raffle when the aim 
is so good a one?” 

“Yes, we object to the principle involved; and 
we really think the gain is all on our side. Let 
me give you one instance. In the city in which 
I live, a year ago, the proceeds of a charity ball 
were divided among four of the city hospitals. 
The one in which my church is specially inter- 
ested, courteously returned the three thousand 
dollars sent, on this ground of principle. A few 
days after, the sum of five thousand dollars was 
sent to the trustees, in acknowledgment of their 
adherence to what the donor thought was their 
right action.” 

“And yet,” the lady replied, “you have no Es- 
tablished Church, nor governmental help for 
your charities and churches! This is so new 
and strange to me.” And she asked to have the 
points clearly restated to her. 

By this time, the booth was well filled, and ladies 
were crowding around Jeanette’s interlocutor; 
so, with apologies for having allowed the lady 
to occupy herself so long with the American 
stranger, our Jeanette bowed herself away. 


124 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


When she joined her husband at the entrance 
of the booth, where he had been waiting for her, 
he said: e 

“Do you know that you have been gossiping - 
for the last half-hour with her Grace, the Countess 
of Warwick ?” x : 

“No, I was not aware of it; but it struck me 
that she was treated with unusual consideration 
by the fine-looking gentry, who were constantly 
coming up with greetings. However, I am not 
sorry to have had this bit of talk with her, as it 
shows me that a countess is just as agreeable 
as any well-born and well-mannered American 
woman.” 








IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF WORDSWORTH. 


I THINK it is the Swedish poet Tegner who 
says: 


‘* Ah, if so much of beauty pour itself 
Through all the veins of life and of creation, 
How beautiful must the great Fountain be, 
The bright, the eternal !” 


And his lines kept ringing in my head all the 
way from Windermere to Rydal Water, as we 
drove through the beautiful landscape the other 
day. The sky was brilliantly clear, and the sun- 
shine truly American in its brightness. “You 
have Queen’s weather, indeed, for your excur- 
sion,” said our kind host, as we set out from the 
edge of Lake Windermere, on board the little 
steamer, The Swan, for Ambleside—Wordsworth’s 
and Southey’s Ambleside. It is the quaint- 
est village imaginable, cropping out from the 
hillside like some natural rocky formation. 
Wordsworth says that most of the cottages in 
the lake country look like native boulders, shaped 
by nature into some resemblance to a human 
dwelling, and we constantly verified his idea. 


On our way to the head of the lake, Dove-Nest 
(125) 


126 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


was pointed out to us, half hidden amid rich 
coppice—a pretty cottage, where Mrs. Hemans 
once had her summer home: and as we passed 
it, I looked out for the “great, white rose-tree,” 
in the centre of the lawn, to which she so pathet- 
ically likened her own life. 

At Ambleside we took a carriage for Gras- 
mere, and found in our coachman a most intelli- 
gent guide. He knew every foot of the storied 
way—yjust where to stop, where the views were 
finest, and with the end of his whip gave interest, 
by what he had to tell, to every roof and chim- 
ney-pot. We wound among steep green hills, 
bald of trees, and strewn over with sheep-walks 
and mossy walls to their very tops. These hills 
are marvellous in shape, often sternly rugged, 
with little of the rich softness which character- 
izes the more southern shores of Lake Winder- 
mere. The roads are the perfection of roads, 
turfed to the edge with such turf as the Rydal 
Poet used to boast, it took three hundred years 
to produce. The variety and beauty of the wild 
flowers along the hedge-rows were things to 
wonder at. Our driver gathered for us spikes of 
brilliant foxglove a foot long, with flowers of a 
prodigious size, and columbines of the rarest 
beauty. 








IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF WORDSWORTH. 127 


Before we reached Grasmere, we came upon 
the residence of Harriet Martineau, a tall house, 
some distance from the road. ‘The Knoll,” as 
it is called, faces the lake, and is beautifully sit- 
uated. Although we were no great admirers of 
the strong-minded woman, we looked with in- 
terest on a spot to which so many great person- 
ages had made pilgrimage, while its Egeria dis- 
pensed her wide hospitality here. 

The village of Grasmere has the same gray 
quiet that marks the villages of all this district. 
We drove at once to the central spot of interest, 
St. Oswald’s Church. As we entered its green 
enclosure, and looked round at the stern yet 
beautiful mountains, that gather lake and village 
into their circling embrace, I thought I never had 
seen so fitting a burial-place for a poet of nature. 
“Don’t tell me,” I said to Julia, as we threaded 
the long gravelled walk through the church- 
yard, “where Wordsworth lies”; for she had al- 
ready made a pilgrimage toit. “Let me see if 
my instincts will not lead me straight there.” 
And they did. 

The Wordsworth plot is filled with family 
graves, with simple slabs and headstones of gray 
slate-stone; only one marble one among them, 
that of Dora Wordsworth the wife of Edward 


128 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS, 


Quillinan, the well-known translator of the Por- 
tuguese poet Camoens. One may be forgiven a lit- | 
tle sentiment while standing here and reading the 
familiar names. What stern Doric simplicity in 
the two lines on the slab over the poet’s grave: 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
and 
MAry, his wife. 

We had evidence that personal interest in the 
poet has not yet died out; for there was a cluster 
of fresh roses laid upon the stone, and a man- 
uscript copy of verses, evidently original, ad- 
dressed to him, placed there also. 

Dora Wordsworth’s grave recalled to mind her 
father’s tender verses, “The Triad,” addressed 
to the daughters of the three poets—Sara Col- 
eridge, Edith Southey, and his own Dora—all 
beautiful girls, worthy of the tribute paid to them 
in the poem. 

Close by is the grave of Dorothy, the “wild- 
eyed sister” of Wordsworth, whom Coleridge 
used to speak of as the most intellectual woman 
he had ever known; and yet her latter years were 
clouded under a veil of pathetic insanity. 

As I turned from the Wordsworth plot, I felt 
something like moisture dim my eye, as I found 
‘myself suddenly facing a circular headstone, 








IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF WORDSWORTH. 129 


on which was sculptured a beautiful flower- 
wreathed Maltese cross, bearing the name of 
Hartley Coleridge. Instantly there came to mind 
that gray morning, when Mrs. Wordsworth sent 
“James ’’—the well-known factotum of Rydal 
Mount—down to the cottage of the sick man, 
over whose life she had had such a motherly 
care. 

“Mistress, I think you maun go down to him; 
for Mr. Hartley is very bad.” 

So she went, and sat by the poor fellow with 
his hand in hers, till the sad, ineffectual life 
passed away. 

“William,” she said, on coming home, “I have 
promised poor Hartley that he shall be laid close 
beside us.” And so just outside of the iron rail- 
ing he lies. 

We went into the antique Norman church, and 
read in the low porch this card, which seemed to 
us touching and appropriate: 

“Whoever thou art that enterest this church, forbear 
not to put up a brief prayer for the minister and the 
congregation who worship here; and, above all, forget 
not to offer a petition for thyself.” | 

The church is very quaint and ancient. It has 
a large east window of fine stained glass; and in 
the chancel were two very antique chairs, black 

9 


130 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


as ebony through age, with their primitive carv- 
ing worn almost to smoothness. On the high 
back of each we read the respective dates cut in 
relief, A.D, 607, and A.D. 637. In one of the aisles 
is a monument to Wordsworth, surmounted by 
a life-size bust, with a long inscription testifying 
to his virtues as a neighbor and citizen, as well 
as a poet. | 

It pleased me to come suddenly upon a tablet, 
with a das-relievo head, erected to Mrs. Fletcher, 
the beautiful and accomplished woman whose 
home in Edinburgh was the gathering-place, 
fifty years ago, for the wits and bright spirits of 
that classic city—in short, its Holland House. I 
sat down in her pew, and recalled her account of 
Wordsworth’s death. From the windows of Les- 
keth How, her summer home, she could see the 
windows of Rydal Mount. 

“Are they closed this morning, Elsie?” she 
asked her maid, not having courage enough to 
look for herself. 

“Yes, mistress, all are bowed.” 

*‘ Ah, well !—then he has gone!” 

From a neighboring mountain tarn a sparkling 
beck dashes down, just outside the churchyard 
wall, and goes babbling on till it loses itself in 
the lake near by. 








IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF WORDSWORTH. 131 


At the pretty little Grasmere Hotel we had a 
charming luncheon, and then took our carriage 
again to drive to Rydal Mount. On the way, we 
passed Nab Cottage, where Hartley Coleridge 
lived and died. At one point we came upon a 
huge pile of rocks, with rude steps cut upon one 
side. Here was the sacred haunt of the poet, 
where he used to sit for hours crooning to him- 
self, as he made his verses. A short drive over 
roads as smooth as a floor, brought us to the foot 
of Rydal Mount. The ascent is long and steep, 
but the beautiful road is completely overarched 
with tall trees. Wordsworth’s cottage (though it 
is a two-storied house of good dimensions) is al- 
most hidden from view by high surrounding 
walls, thick hedges, and close clusters of foliage. 
The people of this north region seem still to hold 
to the idea that raids from the Picts and Scots 
may yet be looked for; for there is not a villa, 
nor dwelling of any pretension, that is not 
strongly garrisoned behind walls eight and 
sometimes ten feet high, into which admittance 
is only had through barred iron gates, ponder- 
ous enough to guard a drawbridge. 

_ As this property no longer belongs to the 
Wordsworths, it is not open to the tourist; so 
we contented ourselves with peering through 


132 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


the gates into the pretty grounds, and gather- 
ing a few laurel leaves in memory of him whose 
genius will always consecrate the place. | 

Our drive back to Ambleside was on the oppo- 
site side of the lake from the route we had taken 
in the morning, and was only a shade less pic- 
turesque and beautiful. Everything along the 
way recalled Wordsworth. “We are seven,” 
G 
doorway full of bright-faced children. ‘ Goody 


said, as we passed a cottage with a 





Blakes’? were strewn along the road, and here 
and there we encountered that “‘ wolet by a mossy 
stone,”—some pretty “ Zucy Gray” in the shape of 
a young mountain maiden. As we approached 
the beautiful shores of Windermere, we could 
not forbear quoting the poet’s own words: 


«|... A mild surprise 
Did carry far into our hearts the voice 
Of mountain torrents ; and the visible scene 
Entered, all unawares, into our minds 
With its grand solemn imagery, its rocks, 
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 
Into the bosom of the steady lake.” 














AT ST. OSWALD’S. 


WirTuin the church I knelt, where many a year 
Wordsworth had worshipped, while his musing 
eye 7 7 
Wandered o’er mountain, fell, and scaur, and sky, 
That rimmed the silver circle of Grasmere, 
Whose crystal held an under-world as clear 
As that which girt it round ;—and questioned 
why 
The place was sacred for zs lifted sigh, 
More than the humble dalesman’s kneeling near. 


Strange spell of Genius—that can melt the soul 
To reverence tenderer that o’er it falls 
Beneath the marvellous heavens which God hath 
made; 
And sway it with such human-sweet control, 
That holier henceforth seem these simple walls, 


Because, within them once, a Poet prayed ! 
(133) 


A DAY AT FURNESS ABBEY. 


WE were staying last week at Bowness, on 
Lake Windermere, about twenty-two miles from 
the spot where I now write, Keswick, on Der- 
wentwater. Bowness is one of the quaintest 
towns I have seen in England, and has an air of 
antiquity which its six or seven hundred years 
of age will hardly warrant. Its steep streets 
slope from the water’s edge up to the crest of 
the hill, on which the pretty Crown Hotel stands, 
clustered over with honeysuckles and roses, 

The villages in the Lake District have a pecu- 
liarity of their own, and are unlike any I else- 
where saw in England. They are built of the 
slaty stone that abounds in this region, and as 
their streets are flagged with the same, they 
would have a melancholy grayness were it not 
for the laughing brightness of the flowers, in 
which every little cottage nestles roof-deep. I 
never imagined such a riot of ivy as there is 
everywhere among these beautiful Cumberland 
and Westmoreland lakes. Every roadside cottage 
is covered with it to its chimney-pots; every wail 


clothes itself with it as with a mantle; the great 
(134) 











A DAY AT FURNESS ABBEY. 138 


boulders, which are a marked feature in the 
landscape here, are green with it. Why it should 
grow with a rapidity and luxuriance, here, un- 
known to the South of England, I am not able 
to say. 

As Bowness is a very convenient centre from 
which to make excursions to every part of the 
Lake region, I must be allowed to say a few 
words more about it. It lies along Lake Winder- 
mere, the largest and most beautiful of all these 
exquisite sheets of water that help to make this 
North of England one of the most delicious 
spots, for consummate beauty, in all the world. 
Certainly the three kingdoms can show nothing 
like it. The little cove at Bowness is at all times 
flashing with scores of pleasure-boats, whose 
crimson cushions and floating pennons give it a 
most brilliant appearance. Small, trim steamers 
constantly ply up and down the bright waters, 
and as they have bands on board,—pipers and 
fi dlers,—the tourist is constantly moving to the 
sound of music. One of our party, who had 
been up and down the lake so often that he had 
gotten tired of dropping sixpences into the per- 
petual hat, said, on one of our excursions, to 
the old Scotchman who passed it around, “ Not 
another pennv!” The bonneted piper meekly 


136 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


took his seat, and in a little while, “The Star- 
spangled Banner” was struck up, and played 
with great vigor. When the hat for the third 
time made its rounds, the American heart of our 
companion was so stirred that all his sixpences 


went. 


The old church at Bowness dates back five 


hundred years, and is a well-preserved specimen 
of the architecture of that period. Along the 
nave, quaint wooden arches spring across from 
the tops of the pillars, inscribed on each side 
with verses from Scripture in black-letter, 

The east window in this church was like the 
one Lowell speaks of in “ The Cathedral ’— 


‘* A great east window of divine surprise.” 


It was made of the fine stained glass rescued 
from Furness Abbey at its destruction, and was 
filled with medallion pictures, wrought with rare 
delicacy and feeling. Scarcely in any other 
stained window in England had we seen finer 
specimens of the art when it was in its perfec- 
tion. In one of the aisles we were shown one of 
the few chained Bibles that yet remain in Eng- 
land, the chain being strong and ponderous 
enough to pull a cart. 

One of the most delightful excursions a tourist 





‘: 








A DAY AT FURNESS ABBEY. 137 


can make from Bowness is to Furness Abbey, 
which, by the help of steamer and rail, he can 
accomplish, and return in a day, leaving several 
hours on his hands for sight-seeing. We stepped 
on board a rapid little steamer, Zhe Cygnet, and 
were soon flying down the lake. The beauty of 
the shores of Windermere is something beyond 
description. The cultivation of the wooded 
slopes is perfect, and from end to end they are 
studded with villas, hidden away amid their 
parks. No wonder that Wordsworth, and Sou- 
they, and Coleridge, and Christopher North, and 
Dr. Arnold, and Ruskin, seem to grow extrav- 
agant over the dream-like beauty of this scenery ! 
The greatest lover of Wordsworth among us in- 
sisted on quoting him at every turn, till the rest 
were ready to cry “ Hold!” 

A few miles brought us to Lakeside, the station 
where we took train to Furness. Its walls are 
so completely covered with ivy and flowering 
vines that it might readily be mistaken for the 
picturesque lodge at the entrance of a gentle- 
man’s grounds. The day was one of rare clear- 
ness; the sky held that “incommunicable blue” 
so seldom seen in England. We followed the 
windings of the river Leven through valleys 
steeped in verdure, down to Ulverston, thence to 


138 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


the large manufacturing town of Dalton. The 
passage of the Ulverston Sands is robbed of 
all its peril now, but in the ancient times, to 
cross them was the only way to reach Furness 
Abbey. The tide washed out far inland every 
trace of pathway, so that no traveller, save at 
the risk of his life, dared to cross them without 
a guide. We were whirled safely over, without 
a thought of danger, to the door of what eight 
hundred years ago was the abbot’s house. 

The old monks had a keen eye for rich lands 
and picturesque sites. There is scarcely a mon- 
astic ruin in the three kingdoms that has not 
been chosen with an eye to these points. 

The conquering Normans, too, well knew how 
to search out the choice spots of the realm, other- 
wise this little peninsula in the North of Eng- 
land would not have been the centre of sucha 
grand estate as Count Stephen, of Boulogne, 
made over to the Cistercian monks, who, in 1127, 
here founded Furness Abbey. 

Had Stephen ever imagined that he was to 
become King of England twenty years after— 
for at this time Prince William, son of Henry L, 
had not perished in the White Ship—he would 
perhaps have held on to his rich possessions, 
As it was, he gave them to the Church, in a pious 











A DAY AT FURNESS ABBEY. 139 


mood, in order, as he said, “to secure the sal- 
vation of his own, his wife Matilda’s, and his 
uncle’s (Henry I.) souls.” The revenues from 
these vast possessions, arising from the fisheries, 
the iron and coal mines, as well as from the rich 
lands, enabled the Norman monks, whom Ste- 
phen transported thither, to erect a vast monas- 
tic pile, which in time became the largest in the 
kingdom. The abbots reigned like feudal lords, 
and soon lost sight of St. Bernard’s strict rules 
for the regulation of the order. Twelve hundred 
armed men were kept as retainers in the Abbey, 
and at times the monks and the abbots them- 
selves led scandalous lives. At the suppression 
of monastic houses, everything belonging to the 
Abbey was confiscated, and the buildings left to 
ruin. 

The first thing that met our eyes on entering 
the abbot’s house, now beautifully restored, and 
used as an inn, was an oil painting of Washing- 
ton, over the door of the handsome room in 
which we dined. It was the only portrait of him 
we saw in England. The Abbey is of Norman 
architecture, and was built of red sandstone, 
which, draped as it is from top to bottom with 
ivy, and surrounded by park-like grounds kept 
in the most exquisite manner, gives it a very rich 


q 


140 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


appearance. The walls that still stand are very 
lofty, and several hundred feet in length. A 
long row of pointed windows in the clere-story 
still shows as faultless an outline as if the 
mason’s chisel had left them but yesterday. 
Windows thirty feet high still light the transept, 
as perfect in form as when they were filled with 
stained glass seven hundred years ago. Multi- 
tudes of clustered pillars still stand in their 
original perfection. All the ruins, with the ex- 
ception of a chapel or two, are roofless, and the 
long nave is carpeted with as rich a-verdure as 
England can show. We gathered handfuls of 
buttercups and daisies where altar and holy- 
water fonts used to stand. Indeed, we dipped 
our hands into some of the receptacles for holy 
water built into the walls, with some feeling of 
sentiment for the countless hands that had done 
so before us—hands that have been dust for 
seven hundred years. Fine lancet windows 
opened from the transepts, where ancient tombs 
are still thickly scattered. Our guide pointed 
out the marble effigy of a crusader, black with 
age; that he belonged to the second crusade was 
indicated by his crossed legs. I scraped a few 
flakes of lichen from his helmeted head in mem 
ory of my visit. 





; 








A DAY AT FURNESS ABBEY, 14! 


I will not attempt to carry my reader all over 
this magnificent ruin. The porter’s lodge, the 
chancel, the choir, the transepts, the nave, the 
lantern tower, the chapter-house, the refectory, 
are all more or less perfect. 

We sat down on the capitals of some of the 
ruined pillars, which serve as seats in the beauti- 
ful cloister grounds, and gave ourselves up to 
delicious visions of the olden days. We could 
fancy that we heard chanting in the chapter- 
house, and it did not require much imagination, 
as we sat with half-closed eyes, to believe that 
we caught sight, now and then, of the floating 
robe of a Cistercian monk. Julia suggested that 
the multitude of rooks cawing above the ruins 
were the old monks come back again, only their 
white habits were changed to black in token of 
their sorrow over the changed order of things. 
The tinkle of the distant sheep-bells, that came 
‘borne to us on the soft wind, our day-dream 
easily converted into the chime of the Angelus. 
Even the bustle of a distant train seemed not 
greatly unlike the noise the twelve hundred 
armed men might sometimes have made in the 
court-yard. But the gay chatter of half a dozen 
bright young girls who had joined our party, put 
to flight all too soon these visions of the past. 


wl Pi SRR oe i ee ee os ee 


i ok eae ee ee 


142 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


We certainly could not mistake them for saintly 
lady abbesses, or white-swathed, meek-faced nuns. 

Furness Abbey is now the private property of 
the Duke of Devonshire, and its grounds and 

surroundings are as perfectly kept as Chatsworth 
itself. Infinite pains are taken to prevent hein 
falling of walls, and every effort made to arrest 
the gnawing tooth of time, so that the ruins of © 
Furness Abbey are likely to stand in their pres- 
ent beautiful decay—so beautiful that they ; if i 
scarcely seem sad—for scores of yearstocome.  —S— 








AROUND GRETA HALL. 


WE have been driving and sauntering about 
this lovely spot where, for forty years, Robert 
Southey had his home, and in the neighborhood 
of which he lies buried. . 

Nothing could have been further from Southey’s 
idea, when he came hither on a visit to Coleridge, 
who, in his vagrant way, had moored himself here 
for a brief period, than to choose this part of Eng- 
land as a permanent home; for he was a Bristol 
man, and loved the sights and sounds of the sea. 

If it was the “malice of circumstance” that 
sent Coleridge drifting thither, it surely was an 
overruling kindness that placed Southey here, 
where he was left free and undisturbed to carry 
out the literary plans of his life, to which he ad- 
hered so rigidly. He found Greta Hall a house 
suited to his purpose; just sufficiently secluded 
to meet his ideas; the neighborhood of poet- 
friends and cultivated society, and scenery such 
as his West England eyes had never rested on 
before. 


Coleridge, in coaxing him thither, said: “In 
(143) 


144 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


front we have a giants’ camp, an encamped army 
of tent-like mountains, which, by an inverted 
arch, gives a view of another vale. On our right 
the lovely vale and the wedge-shaped lake of 
Bassenthwaite ; and on our left, Derwentwater 
and Lodore full in view, and the fantastic moun- 
tains of Borrowdale. Behind us the massy Skid- 
daw, smooth, green, high, with two chasms, and 
a tent-like ridge in the larger.” 2 

And so Southey carried his Penates to Greta 
Hall, and hallowed the spot ever after, by its as- 
sociations with one who was beyond almost all 
of his craft, a perfect man of letters. 

No one can read Cuthbert Southey’s delightful 
Life of his father, so enriched by its abundance 
of sparkling correspondence with the best minds 
in Britain, or the pleasant autobiographical remi- 
niscences of Sara Coleridge, during her girlhood’s 
life under her uncle’s roof, without a keen inter- 
est in what appertains to this rarely happy liter- 
ary home. 

Greta Hall stands on the crest of a slope, just 
beyond the town of Keswick, and is so embower- 
ed in trees, that it is not easy to get a good view 
of it from the front. Between it and the pretty 
stone bridge over the Greta is—oh, the sharp 
irony of poetic justice !—a huge establishment 








AROUND GRETA HALL. 145 


bearing in staring letters on its wall: “The 
Southey Lead-Pencil Manufactory.” I could not 
but imagine the grim frown that would have 
clouded the poet’s handsome face, could sucha 
master of the scribbling art have had a fore- 
shadowing of the smoky chimney -stacks, that 
shut out the picturesque view of the pretty town 
of Keswick beyond. 

We strolled along the banks of the clear Greta, 
fringed with sweet-brier, wild marigold, and but- 
tercups. The path seemed to have been trod- 
den by centuries of feet; and it was, perhaps, 
Southey’s most familiar foot-way. We found 
ourselves close behind the back windows of the 
Hall. The stream whispers along so near the 
house as fairly to wash its walls; and we almost 
could have shaken hands with one standing in 
what Sara Coleridge calls one of the lordliest 
studies in England. 

At one end of the mansion rambled the low 
walls of the kitchen offices, where I imagined I 
could see the “dear Aunt Edith” with her basket 
of keys, going to and fro in her careful and dig- 
nified way, looking after the res anguste domt. 

A narrow path led from the house to a small 
landing, where lay a little boat, just such a one 


as that in which Southey used to paddle himself 
IO 


146 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


up and down the stream. How suggestive it all 
was of the beautiful life of this home-loving man 
—of picnics to Lodore; of trips to Skiddaw; of 
sails on Derwentwater; of climbs up Helvellyn! 

We attended service on Sunday at Cross- 
thwaite Church, where Southey lies buried. 
Apart from this association, the church is inter- 
esting as being a very ancient foundation. It 
claims to occupy the site of a Saxon church that 
stood there in the sixth century. At one end 
of one of the aisles, is a large white marble 
monument, bearing a recumbent figure of the 
poet. The face does not give one as agreeable 
an impression as the steel engravings we are 
familiar with. Perhaps it is because the eyes 
are wide open, with a sort of upward stare. The 
idea evidently is, that he hears a voice above him, 
and is dropping the book from his hand to listen. 

The simple little children of the primitive- 
looking dales-people gathered about us, and 
seemed interested in our curiosity. It was cher 
statue, and they were glad to have something to 
show these foreign tourists. It was entertain- 
ing to see their sense of proprietorship ; they 
rubbed their rough hands over the poet’s crisp 
curls, smoothed his forehead, and dallied with 
the marble tassels of the cushion on which his 











AROUND GRETA HALL. 147 


head rested, the beadle not interfering to forbid 
them. In the churchyard we found the monu- 
ments of the Southey family, made of simple 
gray stone like that which covers Wordsworth’s 
grave. As I stood there, I could not but recall 
the somewhat sad extinguishment of a life that 
had been pre-eminently happy; and the sleety 
March morning on which Wordsworth and Quil- 
linan crossed over from Grasmere to see him 
laid in the grave, seemed a fitting type of his 
life’s ending. 

“He was a noble and kind gentleman,” the 
beadle said to Anna—“ so gracious to all his poor 
neighbors; not like Mr. Wordsworth, who did 
na’ mind them much. My wife was for long, a 
maid in his family, and a better maister never 
lived.” 

Derwentwater is a perfect gem of a lake, sur- 
rounded by fantastically moulded mountains, 
green to their tops, and where they are not cov- 
ered with young plantations of larches, threaded 
with sheep-paths. It was not strange that Cole- 
ridge should have named the son, who was born 
here, after this lake. We made the circuit of the 
lake the other afternoon, and it was a drive to 
be remembered. We had a spanking pair of 
horses and an intelligent driver, who made every 


148 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


foot of the way interesting by his reminiscences. 
Old Skiddaw towered in the distance; the quiet 
of the lake was impressive, presenting a great 
contrast to Windermere with its fleets of pleas- 
ure-boats. 

We explored Borrowdale; we paused at the 
chasm, but did not see “how the water comes 
down at Lodore”’; for midsummer had dried up 
the mountain streams. We stopped beside the 
great “Bowder Stone’’—the biggest boulder, I 
suppose, in Great Britain—but we did not ascend 
the steps which lead to its top. The head-waters 
of the Derwent take their rise in a wild region, 
that answers to the Indian’s description of a waste 
rocky gorge,—“ A place where the Great Spirit 
emptied His lap, after He had finished making 
the world.” We wound away from the top of 
Borrowdale, down the other side of the lake, and 
passed St. Herbert’s Isle,—a spot made holy as 
the haunt of a hermit, who lived there in the 
seventh century. Of course, by dint of a little 
sharp gazing, we could see the ruins of St. Her- 
bert’s chimney-top ! 

We finished our beautiful day, by sitting out 
on the fine grounds of this manorial-looking 
hotel (The Mansion House)—which is for the 
time being our home—and watched the sun go 








AROUND GRETA HALL. 149 


down behind the tent-like mountains, with a 
golden lustre that suffused the cloudless sky— 
the circle of sapphire hills—the bright town 
below us, and the waters of the crystal lake. As 
the sun’s rim dipped behind the horizon, I looked 
at my watch, and found it a quarter past eight; 
but it was nearly ten before it grew too dark to 
read, so lengthened out, are these northern twi- 
lights. 

“TI shall never see anything on earth lovelier 
than this,’ said the Professor, as he sat with his 
face still brightened by the sunset sky; “I almost 
feel as if I would like to close my eyes here, and 
now, and open them next in heaven!” 

It was perhaps pardonable, that, sitting within 
sight of the roof under which it was written, I 
should quote the opening verses of Southey’s 
“ Thalaba,” as moon and stars came out: 


‘* How beautiful is night! 

A dewy softness fills the silent air ; 
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain 
Dims the serene of heaven. 
In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine 
Sails through the dark blue depths. 
Beneath her mystic ray, 
The heaving mountains spread, 
Like billowy ocean, girdled by the sky; 

How beautiful is night!” 


THE HAUNTS OF SIR WALTER. 


THE most notable object that meets the eye of 
a stranger, as he looks from the windows of the 
Royal Hotel, Princes Street, Edinburgh, is the 
exquisite monument dedicated to the greatest of 
modern romancers. 

And this Princes Street—how its beauty takes 
away one’s breath! and we find ourselves using 
the historic exclamation of “the First Gentle- 
man in Europe,” with a consciousness of its ut- 
ter baldness of description. It seems peculiarly 
fitting, that at the noblest point of this splendid 
avenue, Sir Walter’s monument should be placed, 
just at the edge of the superb esplanade, with 
the old town all behind him, and the new town 
stretching away before him, with its picturesque 
beauty. 

The monument is like the section of a Gothic 
spire, surmounted by many pinnacles, among 
which are niched some thirty of the principal 
characters of Sir Walter’s novels. It is built of 
the light stone, to which most of the architecture 


of the city owes its elegance; and its details are 
(150) 








THE HAUNTS OF SIR WALTER. 151 


very richly wrought out. Under the dome sits 
Sir Walter, wrapped in his plaid, with his head 
upon his hand, in a brooding attitude, while 
Maida lies at his feet. There is something very 
touching as he sits there between the past and 
the present, keeping silent and everlasting watch 
over the city, about which his genius has thrown 
such a glamour of romance. 

They tell us here a touching incident of the 
architect who designed this monument. Sir 
Walter was driving one day among the Pentland 
Hills, and overtook a lad of twelve who was toil- 
ing along under a heavy burden, He made him 
place his bundle in the carriage, and take his 
seat beside him, beguiling the way with talk 
about the boy’s hopes and plans. When he was 
put down by Sir Walter, it was with a warm glow 
_in his heart, and a crown in his hand; and from 
that time his admiration for his benefactor be- 
came a passion. He studied architecture, and 
when designs for the monument were sent in, 
his design was chosen. The pathetic part of the 
story is, that he did not live to see the work, into 
which he had put all his heart, completed. 

There is not a historic building, nor an old 
church, nor a close, nor an ancient thoroughfare, 
about this grand old city, that is not instinct 


152 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


with memories of Sir Walter. Our carriage 
drivers filled us with wonder with their minute 
knowledge of his works. We have followed the 
limping boy to the high-school: we have gone 
with him to the Grass Market. We have paced 
up and down the Cannongate, and had Saddle- 
tree, and Dumbiedikes, and wild-eyed Meg, to 
come crowding about us. We have driven to 
Castle Street, and visited the house there, ina 
back room of which, as he himself says, “ with 
only a patch of shabby sky visible,” he wrote the 
best of his novels. There is nothing to distin- 
guish the house but Sir Walter’s bust above the 
door. 

As we pored over the heart-shaped chiselling 
in the pavement where the old Tolbooth used to 
stand, and drove thence past Davie Dean’s cot- 
tage, and then away beyond the city limits to 
Reuben Butler’s school-room, and had the very 
spot shown us where Effie was accustomed to 
meet her lover, no wonder we fancied that we 
saw her grave sister Jeanie walking in High 
Street ! 

On the steps of Greyfriars’ Church, we thought 
assuredly of the solemn league and covenant ; 
but also of that wet Sunday when the gallant 
Walter gave his umbrella in the porch to the 











THE HAUNTS OF SIR WALTER. 153 


pretty, young French maiden who afterward be- 
came his Charlotte. And how could we sit in 
St. Giles or stand in its crypt on the slabs, under 
which lie Murray and Montrose, and not feel as if 
we were living among his creation? 

At Holyrood Sir Walter seemed to be our cice- 
rone; and it was the Mary Stuart of his romances 
who haunted all the rooms, and who went up 
and down with us those worn, stony stairways. 
Pausing before the entrance to the palace, at the 
beautiful fountain covered over with historic 
statuettes, it was “Jingling Geordie” who 
seemed to stretch his hand to us to lead us to 
Heriot’s Hospital, at whose entrance we easily 
saw Nigel with Richard Moniplies behind him. 

We have gone, with the spirit of pilgrims, over 
the beautiful “Queen’s Drive”; and find the 
whole circuit of the landscape filled with Sir 
Walter. Yonder are the Pentland Hills, every 
foot of which he had tramped over. In the dis- 
tance beyond lies Lammermoor; and within 
view are the sands where the poor Master of 
Ravenswood perished. Just a short way this 
side of them is the field of Preston Pans; and 
down there, in the little village, we could see the 
roof under which Prince Charlie slept the night 
before the battle. 


154 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


We turn our heads, and below us are the ruins 
of St. Anthony’s Chapel, so fully described in 
“The Heart of Mid-Lothian.” Farther on is St. 
Margaret’s Well—an ancient fountain of as cool, 
delicious water as we ever drank. We pleased 
ourselves with thinking that the boy Walter had 
many atime taken a draught from the antique 
iron ladle chained to the solid masonry of the 
well. 

But why attempt to catalogue the spots made 
memorable by this supreme genius, when the 
very lochs and mountains, and bracken, and 
heathery moors, all give back to us the echo of 
the one name! What were beautiful Scotland 
without Sir Walter as the interpreter of her 
legends and her history—of her sufferings and 
her glory ! 

A day or two ago we came down to Abbots- 
ford, still keeping in our hands the clew of the 
Romancer. How refreshing it was to drive along 
the foot of the Eildon Hills, whose three peaks 
are so distinctly seen as we approach the little 
castle—the peaks said to be cloven by the spell 
of Michael Scott, the Wizard, whose tomb we 
saw to-day in Melrose Abbey; and how vividly 
we recalled the midnight ride of Deloraine, in 
search of the Wizard’s Book of Magic! Abbots 


; } 
| 
. 
i 
t 
i 
' 
a 
t 
p 
; 
\ 


SE EGE 


————————— 











THE HAUNTS OF SIR WALTER. 155 


ford lies lower than we had imagined—the Tweed 

‘flowing softly before it, with only the interven- 
tion of a velvet-turfed meadow. The castellated 
house is much more imposing than I had ex- 
pected to see: it is anything but the lath-and- 
plaster structure my travelled friends had talked 
about. It is of a beautiful light stone, and the 
grounds about it are faultlessly kept. 

And yet it made me infinitely sorry to see this 
treasure of Sir Walter’s heart kept as a mere 
show-place; for the Hope-Scott family, we were 
told, live for part of each year in a cottage near 
by, and draw their income largely from the ex- 
hibition to tourists of the house proper. It would 
have made Sir Walter groan, and lean his hand 
more heavily on Tom Purdie’s shoulder, could 
he have been one of our fifty tourists, yesterday, 
who followed the wooden guide all over his pre- 
cious rooms, and heard his wooden talk. It 
seemed to vulgarize the romance of the place. 
Yet it was inspiriting to walk round the draw- 
ing-room; see Raeburn’s fine picture of the Laird 
of Abbotsford; examine the beautiful ebony cab- 
inet and set of chairs, the gift of George the 
Fourth; look at the grand chair presented by 
Gregory the Sixteenth; study the bronze vases 
sent by Byron; and pore over the great, circular 


156 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


table in the Jarge bay-window where, under 
glass, the most precious relics were kept. Here 
was Rob Roy’s purse; Helen Macgregor’s heron- 
plume; the golden cloak-clasps of Bonaparte, 
picked up at Waterloo, with his military port- 
folio; relics of Lord Nelson; a drinking-cup of 
Burns’; and multitudes of mementoes alike in- 
teresting. 

The library is a beautiful room, lined from 
floor to ceiling with books; but the little study 
next to it, with the books around, which were 
the special implements of the Romancer’s trade, 
above all took my heart. There was the veri- 
table chair, and the desk at which he had sat. I 
had leave of the wooden guide to seat myself for 
a few minutes in the chair; and every tourist be- 
fore me seemed some personage who had walked 
out of the pages of “ Kenilworth,” or “Ivanhoe,” 
or “ Old Mortality,” or “The Abbot,” or “ Wood- 
stock.” What brilliant society had filled these 
rooms! What flashes of wit and wisdom had 
these walls heard! What royal spirits had in- 
terchanged thought and sentiment here! How 
had Sir Walter sat on this very window-seat, 
looking out over his beloved Tweed, and listen- 
ing to its placid murmurings ! 

The armory is one of the most interesting in 





See ee a 








THE HAUNTS OF SIR WALTER. 157 


the suite of apartments, hung, as its walls are, 
with every species of armor and implements of 
warfare known in Scottish annals. I shuddered 
as I looked at the claymore of Claverhouse, and 
thought of the blood of the slain Covenanters. 
In the armory, under glass, is preserved the last 
suit Sir Walter wore, even to the white felt hat 
and well-blackened shoes. Just outside the win- 
dow, near, was the grave of Maida, with its pretty 
monument. 

From Abbotsford we drove to Sir Walter’s 
last resting-place, Dryburgh Abbey, and all the 
way we thought of his last drive thither. The 
scenery is of the loveliest character. We did not 
ford the Tweed, but crossed it by a foot chain- 
bridge, and had a long walk to the lodge at the 
gates of the ruins. From the gates to the Abbey 
itself there is the perfection of a beechen walk, 
some quarter of a mile in length,—a mossy wall 
on one hand, a wide stretch of meadow on the 
other, and close rows of ancient beeches meeting 
overhead. The ruins are the most picturesque 
we have seen in Britain; the seclusion has some- 
thing inexpressibly sweet about it. Those world- 
ly-wise old monks knew how to choose the love- 
liest spot on all Tweedside. No wonder Sir Wal- 
ter wished to be buried here, instead of at Mel- 


158 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


rose! There is a calm and quiet about the place 
that makes it seem almost holy. “If I die 
abroad,” I could not help whispering to the Pro- 
fessor, as I stood among some of the freshly-made 
graves, “get leave for me to be buried at Dry- 
burgh !” 

The chapel, or rather niche, under which Sir 
Walter lies, is well preserved, and is protected 
by tall iron gates. The Lockhart family fill the 
adjoining one—the only two cloisters that are 
under roof. A large rose window, near, remains 
perfect, and the chapel is well preserved, with 
the narrow stone benches running all round the 
walls, intact as when the monks sat on them so 
long ago. I could write a dozen pages about 
the choked fountains, and the carvings, and the 
court-yard perfumed with sweetbrier and honey- 
suckle; but I forbear. 

We drove away with the afternoon sun bright 
above us, under a long line of “the monks’ 
beeches,” as our driver called them, and reached 
this quaint little inn at Melrose, not to see it by 
“fair moonlight,” but at least before the sun 
went down. The Abbey must have been beauti- 
ful in its time, but the ruins are limited as com- 
pared with Dryburgh; and the village which has 
been built from them, crowds them in a very vul- 





ee a eee - =, 


eS 


Te ae ee a Se 








THE HAUNTS OF SIR WALTER. 159 


gar and obtrusive way. The ruins are not kept 
with much care, but some of the cloisters are 
still very perfect. ‘Here rests the heart ot 
Bruce,’ we read on a tablet under the east win- 
dow; and many a famous name in Scottish story 
we traced upon the ancient tombs. Here, just 
beneath my window, is Tom Purdie’s grave, and 
yonder is the stone within the Abbey on which 
Sir Walter used to sit brooding for hours. He 
would walk on from Abbotsford, the guide told 
us, with Tom Purdie’s shoulder for a staff, and 
sit half the day here, with Maida at his feet. 
Still, Melrose has little of the charm of Dry- 
burgh, and we are glad Sir Walter lies beyond 
the long beechen walk where the roar of the 
world never comes. 


AMONG OXFORD QUADRANGLES. 


Or all the old cities of England which we 
have visited, there is not one that has taken a 
deeper hold upon us than this beautiful, historic, 
and most antique city of King Alfred. So linked 
is it in our minds with the boy-memories of 
one of the most interesting of all Britain’s early 
sovereigns, that one is quite disposed to summon 
up in imagination the little Saxon prince, stand- 
ing at the knee of his noble mother, Elfleda, and 
conning the lesson, which was to bring him the 
reward of the little manuscript book he so cov- 
eted. We know that here Alfred, when he be- 
came king, planted the first college or school, 
about which have gathered such vast accretions, 
as the centuries have gone on, There are now 
some twenty-four colleges in Oxford, each one 
an independent foundation in itself, and all to- 
gether forming that splendid university, which 
has been for ages, not only Britain’s pride, but 
the pride, as well, of the civilized world. 

Having been built at epochs widely separated, 


the architecture of these ancient halls of learning 
(160) 





AMONG OXFORD QUADRANGLES, 161 


is as varied as their names. Among the oldest, 
we are told, is Merton College; and to look at 
its scaling walls, and loosened carvings, and time- 
stained architraves, and gnawed stone-work, into 
which the ages have bitten so remorselessly, one 
might think that King Arthur had there worn 
the academic gown. It actually seems decrepit 
with age, and the worn Gothic doorways seem 
almost ready to stoop with the weight of the 
centuries piled upon them. 

These gnawed and eaten walls seem very pa- 
thetic—like the wrinkles of decay upon the face 
of the octogenarian. It is not owing to extreme 
age that these Oxford colleges wear such traces 
of the tooth of time. They have been almost 
invariably built of that soft, white English stone, 
which so readily yields to the effects of constant 
dampness. Westminster Abbey was built of this 
stone, and the consequence is that it is scaling 
and wasting to such a degree that the English 
mind is just now greatly exercised as to whether 
the whole Minster will not have to be cased ex- 
ternally with fresh stone—a step every antiqua- 
rian would be shocked to see taken, for this 
hoary agedness of which we speak, seems equally 
to wrap the Abbey, and make it older than the 


temples of Paestum. 
ry 


162 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


Here and there they are furbishing up the 
antique exteriors of the old colleges. Magdalen 
College was undergoing some such thorough 
repair. This college is always called Maudlin 
at Oxford. If we had asked for Magdalen Col- 
lege we would have received the same answer 
as our American friend did of the Oxford porter: 
“Magdalen College, sir? Why, there is none of 
that name here.” He put the question to some 
half-dozen different persons of various stations 


of society, receiving in substance the same an- ~ 


swer. At last, seeing a gownsman approaching, 
he accosted him: “ Half a dozen people have as- 
sured me that there is no Magdalen College in 
Oxford. As I know there is, will you be so kind 
as to relieve my perplexity as to its where- 
abouts ?”’ 

“ Oh,” said the Don, “you mean Maudlin Col- 
lege. Nobody here knows it as Magdalen.” 

We drove to Christ College, which is the head 
college of the University. A guide was waiting 
under the broad, stone archway, into whose 
hands we resigned ourselves. This college is by 
no means one of the oldest, but it is one of the 
richest in its architecture. Crossing a broad 
grayelled quadrangle, we faced the sculptured 
stone over the doorway, which bears a Latin in- 





AMONG OXFORD QUADRANGLES. 163 


scription to the effect that this college was built 
and endowed by Cardinal Wolsey. 

We ascended the old marble stairway, worn 
by the tread of the scholarly feet that had been 
going up and down it for more than three hun- 
dred years, and the first department in which we 
found ourselves, was the grand refectory. It is 
an immensely lofty and long room, lighted with 
many windows of old painted glass, and lined 
from floor to ceiling with historic portraits, full- 
length figures, statues and busts of the great 
scholars who had been educated here. At the 
head of the apartment was a dais, elevated two 
or three feet above the rest of the floor, where 
royal personages dined when they honored the 
college with a visit, and where the Dons and the 
Professors dine now. In the centre of the wall 
were two immense pictures—one of Henry VIII, 
in all his regal pomp; the other of the Cardinal, 
in the glory of his ecclesiastical robes. 

As we walked up and down this splendid room, 
we felt ourselves in very superb company, as we 
looked round at the sages and statesmen who 
gazed at us from the walls, or surveyed us from 
their pedestals. It was natural that from the 
refectory we should wish to go to the kitchens, 
to see in what manner meals were prepared for 


164 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


this vast number of scholars, for the guide said 
there were then about five hundred names on the 
rolls. It was vacation, and there were only then 
a few residents in college; but some alert cooks, 
in their white-paper caps and immaculate aprons, 
were moving briskly about the huge fireplaces, 
and we saw them grilling their famous steaks. 
We were shown the apartments which Prince 
Leopold occupied when he was a student at Ox- 
ford—apartments that had nothing about them 
more royal-looking than those of a sizer. Dr. 
Pusey’s rooms were pointed out to us, Canon 
Liddon’s, and others. Only an occasional gowns- 
man was to be seen; and quadrangles, walks, and 
gardens wore a look of strange solitude. What 
splendid avenues of old trees bordered the green- 
sward in the college gardens! Every tree seemed 
as much sheltered and cared for as if it were 
some old college pensioner; and what pen can 
describe the velvety richness of the grass, the 
broad, long-drawn, gravelled walks, as smooth 
as a marble floor; the umbrageous seats, invit- 
ing to studious repose, and the air of ancient 
and scholastic elegance which pervades the em- 
battled walls, the ivied towers, the mullioned 
windows, the sculptured gateways, and the hoary 
cloisters. We did not wonder, as we went over 





AMONG OXFORD QUADRANGLES. 165 


the Oxford Colleges, at the Englishman’s love 
for his university; we did not marvel that such 
perfect scholars were turned out here, as we 
looked at the grand libraries, overflowing with 
the musty lore of the ages. 

Addison’s beautiful walk is a spot of great at- 
traction, with its gravel, its grass, and its mag- 
nificent trees, and the sweet association of the 
calm and gentle scholar, the echo of whose steps 
will forever linger here. From Addison’s walk 
we drove to the Bodleian Library. Its external 
appearance is very imposing, as one passes under 
the huge archway into the great paved quadran- 
gle, upon which the different departments open, 
having the peculiar character of each one de- 
scribed over the door—such as law, medicine, 
history, divinity, science, and so on beyond our 
counting. We ascended to the apartment where 
were stored the most valuable manuscripts, mis- 
sals, relics, specimens of the oldest known writ- 
ings, the first books ever printed, autograph let- 
ters of old authors, manuscript copies of ancient 
celebrated works, Guttenberg’s earliest printing, 
and a thousand other things, which only a cata- 
logue of the Bodleian could give one an idea of. 
Here was the missal that Marie Stuart had wept 
over at Fotheringay Castle. Here was a book of 


166 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


devotion belonging to Charles I., and bound—a 
queer conceit !—in a piece of a waistcoat he had 
worn. Here were pages of Queen Elizabeth's 
copy-book—a bit of the little Princess’ Latin ex- 


- ercise. Here was a pretty letter of the boy-king, 


Edward VI. 

But one cannot attempt to enumerate the treas- 
ures of the Bodleian. These, of course, are 
all under glass; but they are so carefully and 
fully catalogued that one had no questions to 
ask. It brought one very near to the old times, to 
bend over Caedmon’s Anglo-Saxon Paraphrase, 
and King Alfred’s Translations, anda manuscript 
of the Gospels used by St. Augustine at Canter- 
bury, A.D. 600, and a pair of Queen Elizabeth’s 
gloves which she had worn. All this was mod- 
ern compared with the papyrus rolls from Her- 
culaneum, Sanskrit rolls, and Ethiopic and Cop- 
tic manuscripts. The ceiling of this treasure- 
room is in large panels, every panel containing 
the portrait of some celebrated man of past 
times. The Great Hall is a room of splendid 
proportions. The books of greatest value, look- 
ing as old as Miles Coverdale, were in cases 
of four feet in height, the whole space above, 
almost to the lofty ceiling, being filled with large 
canvases and portraits of all the worthies who 





»* 


TT 








—-z 


AMONG OXFORD QUADRANGLES. 167 


have figured in English history. It was like 
walking down the pages of Hume, Macaulay, 
and Green. What a tempting place for a student 


_ to study history, where he can find upon the wall 


the face of every important actor in the great 
drama of the past. 

The architecture of the twenty-four colleges 
of Oxford is wonderfully diverse and wonder- 
fully interesting. Such quaint old gateways, no 
two of them exactly alike; such antique porches, 
such beautifully sculptured oriel windows, such 
rich stone tracery everywhere. And then the 
air of almost pathetic antiquity that seems to 
pervade every spot on which the eye rests, and 
the classic aroma that hangs about the dim old 
quadrangles, and the mossy cloisters, and the 
crumbling arches, and the ivied towers—what 
an aspect of scholastic seclusion these give to 
this ancient haunt of learning. There is not an- 
other city like Oxford in the world, and to us it 
seemed the very gem of England. There is noth- 
ing of to-day about it; it is redolent of the yester- 
day that reaches back to King Alfred—that brings 
before us Chaucer and Wycliffe, and Ben Jonson, 
and Wolsey and Cranmer and Sir Kenelm Dig- 
by. When we drove away from the old city, we 
felt as if we had left half our heart behind us. 


KING WILLIAM’S ORANGE-TREES. 


“Ts it possible’”’—said one of my travelling 
companions, who had been so often in England 
as to know it pretty well by heart —“is it possi- 
ble you are so little of. an anti-Jacobite, and a 
good Protestant, as not to care to make a pil- 
grimage to the spot most of all on British soil, 
associated with the Prince of Orange? Can 
one who is given to boasting that some of her 
ancestors witnessed the final defeat of James 
Stuart, and were ready to sell their lives for 
‘the bulwark of the Protestant Faith,’ in the 
person of the Prince of Nassau, does not care 
_to go to Hampton Court!” 

“But at Hampton Court I should be haunted 
by visions of the proud old Cardinal, or the 
bluff, tyrannical Harry, or poor tearful Anne 
Boleyn.” 

“Not you! There is little there to recall the 
older days; the atmosphere is redolent of Will- 
iam and Mary, almost to the exclusion of either 
earlier or later sovereigns; you will walk through 


twenty apartments that reflect the simple taste 
(168) 





KING WILLIAM’S ORANGE-TREES, I 69 


and domestic habits of the Holland Prince. 
You will almost fancy yourself in the Low Coun- 
try, when you look at the Delf ware, that seems 
to be the only porcelain used in the decoration 
of the palace. You will see the rows of knotted 
and gnarled old orange-trees, whose ancestors, 
at least, came from the principality over the 
water, if they did not themselves have that 
honor; and you will walk through Queen Mary’s 
Private Bower, where she and her ladies used to 
spend somewhat tedious hours.” 

Chaffed thus, I consented to join the party 
that were to spend the day at Hampton Court. 
It was a soft gray English morning, when we 
descended the long flight of stone steps at Black- 
friars’ Bridge, and stepped on board one of 
the little steamers, that are continually rush- 
ing up and down the Thames. We wondered 
what London would do without this historic 
water-way, as there are almost no lines of street- 
trams, as they are called in England, about the 
great city; true there is avast network of under- 
ground railways, which pierce London in every 
direction, honey-combing it as the catacombs 
did old Rome. But it is far more agreeable to 
have the stiff breeze of the river, blowing one’s 
hair about one’s face, than to be traversing the 


170 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


smoky atmosphere of the under-world of the 
great metropolis. 

We sped briskly along the beautiful Victoria 
embankment, which extends for miles along the 
river; and passed multitudes of spots, familiar to 
us, by name, from childhood—Temple Gardens, 
Westminster, Chelsea, Battersea Park, Putney 
Kew. We paused at Chelsea, and with what 
reverence we could summon, examined the 
houses on Cheyne Walk (which faces the river), 
where George Eliot spent the last months of her ~ 
life, and in which she died; and the one not fai 
off, where Thomas Carlyle, and his much-endur- 
ing wife, lived for thirty-five years or more. We 
looked somewhat cynically at the spot on the 
river-bank to which the old philosopher used to 
come every evening to smoke his pipe, and in- 
dulge his gloomy lucubrations about the world. 
But every foot of ground is historic here, and 
every cluster of chimneys we saw, recalled some 
great name in English annals. The windings of 
the Thames become very picturesque, as we get 
beyond the environs of the city; but with its flat 
banks, and sedgy marge, it looks too ridicu- 
lously narrow to American eyes to deserve the 
name of river, at all, much less to be styled, in 
Gray’s lordly verse, “Old Father Thames.” We 


th nt = 
“att is 


2 4 kate j 


UY, is 





KING WILLIAM'S ORANGE-TREES. 7} 


wondered how it was possible for the Oxford 
and Cambridge boat-races to take place on such 
a mere creek as the river becomes, above the 
point which the tide reaches. 

Everybody knows that Hampton Court was 
largely built by Cardinal Wolsey, and its grounds 
so beautified by him, that some little time before 
he fell into disgrace, he made a reluctant present 
of it to his royal master, who otherwise might 
have lifted his head from his shoulders to gain 
possession of it. The palace and very extensive 
grounds are surrounded by high brick walls, al- 
most as high as the stone ones of Windsor. In- 
gress is had through various great iron gates. 
We crossed the old stone bridge, and entered a 
broad drive, which on one side had a long line 
of barrack-stables; for a regiment of cavalry 
has its station here. We witnessed an inspection 
of the horses of the regiment, and a pretty rigid 
one it was. The stern-looking Inspector ex- 
amined every horse with the utmost minuteness, 
from head to tail, rubbing his bare hand the 
wrong way up the horse’s sides and back, and 
slapping his coat with all his might, to see if he 
could shake out any dust. After that was done, 


the young cavalryman was ordered to take his 





horse by the mane, and trot him very rapidly up 
and down before the Inspector. 


172 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


The palace is a huge pile of brick, with facings 
of white marble. It has no special architectural 
beauty, though portions of it were built by Sir 
Christopher Wren. 

We did not realize, as we entered the Great 
Hall, any beauty of the pavement, which some 
old chronicler says was made of tiles of ‘“manie 
divers hewe, pynted and ypaved with pontyls”; 
for we found it worn and dim enough. The 
floors in this palace are inelegant and rude 
beyond those of any royal residence we had 
elsewhere seen, excepting Holy Rood. Not a 
single apartment had waxed or polished floors. 
But it must be remembered that on an average, 
two hundred thousand people visit the Court 
yearly; for it is a great place of resort for the 
millions of London. It is never used as a place 
of royal residence at all. It is not probable that 
Queen Victoria ever passed a night there, and it 
is actually uninhabited, except by the countless 
officials who take care of it. We found it filled 
with workmen, engaged in putting in heating- 
coils. We were told in London, that Bucking- 
ham Palace is manned (and maided) the year 
round, with such perfect order and precision, 
that if, at any hour of the day, the Queen should 
telegraph that she would be there in three hours 





KING WILLIAM'S ORANGE-TREES, 173 


she would find everything so perfectly arranged 
that she could take instant possession. “And 


99 


yet,” said my informant, “she does not spend 
three weeks there out of the fifty-two!” Is it 
wonderful that we found Parliament making in- 
quiries as to the expenses of the seventeen royal 
residences at her Majesty’s disposal? We were 
reminded of Lord Gower’s saying that he was a 
“homeless man”: and were disposed to think the 
Queen might place herself in the same category. 
He is the owner of twenty castles and residences, 
and as he cannot live in any one of them but 
a short period at atime, he feels a compassion 
for himself as one who cannot create for himself 
a permanent enough habitat to be called a home. 

The Great Hall, the largest apartment in the 
palace, is a room of fine dimensions, filled with 
painted windows, rich in heraldic devices. The 
walls were hung with tapestry of more than usual 
artistic grace and finish, very much superior toa 
great deal that we have seen in other castles and 
ducal residences; we remarked one peculiarity 
which gave an odd look to the historic scenes: 
the colors were quite admirably preserved, with 
the exception of the faces of the figures. These 
had invariably turned black, so that these noble 
personages of old all seemed to be negroes. We 


174 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


found beneath the grand chimney-piece what 
looked very familiar to us, a cast-iron stove of an 
old-fashioned Pennsylvania pattern, which, if not 
made at one of the great foundries of the Key- 
stone State, was an exact imitation of those most 
in use twenty-five years ago. 

In the grand drawing-room, there is a fine 
carved mantel-piece of black oak, in the centre 
of which is a profile picture of Cardinal Wolsey, 
who, as he only had one eye, always had his fair 
one turned to the gazer. This room is crowded 
with historic portraits of no great artistic value, 
but interesting as having been taken from life. 
The King’s Stairway is quite grand, and leads to 
many reception-rooms, boudoirs, and chambers, 
the walis of which are entirely concealed by dim 
old canvases, many of them of extraordinary di- 
mensions. The closest historical association that 
many of these suites of rooms seem to have, is 
with William and Mary. There is no end to the 
apartments which his Majesty of Holland digni- 
fied with his occupation; there is his Writing- 
closet, and his Dressing-room, and his Presence- 
chamber, and his private Chapel, and his Study, 
and a score of others. Many of these have their 
walls covered with Sir Peter Lely’s paintings, 
and there are multitudes of articles of furniture 





KING WILLIAM'S ORANGE-TREES. 175 


and of vertu which recall the tastes of the Orange 
prince The finest carving in these chambers, is 
by Grinling Gibbons. In one of the rooms I was 
charmed to find the only picture of Mrs. Delaney 
which has come down to us; but it would have 
made the dear delightful old lady shudder to find 
herself elbowed by a flashy portrait of Madame 
Pompadour. 

We could not forget, as we threaded these his- 
toric rooms, the haunting memories that tapes- 
tried its walls. Here Wolsey had kept almost 
royal court; here bluff Harry had rollicked; from 
these rooms Anne Boleyn had gone to be behead- 
ed; here Jane Seymour had died; here Mary Tu- 
dor had passed her grim honeymoon; here Charles 
I, was a prisoner; here Oliver Cromwell had lived; 
here James II. spent portions of his bloody reign. 
No wonder that later kings and queens never set 
foot within these royal walls, with which so many 
tragic memories are linked ! 

As one walks the long terraces it is not hard 
to believe that the interminable lines of gnarled 
ancient orange-trees made the passage of the 
Straits in the early days of the Protestant Suc- 
cession. If they were all in bearing order they 
would furnish fruit enough for every Protestant 
of Ulster to carry one on the end of his shillalah. 


176 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


Some of them undoubtedly did form a part of 
Queen Mary’s botanical collection. There are de- 
lightful gardens, and the views across them and 
beyond the river are picturesque and beautiful. 
This is the garden which John Evelyn describes 
in his charming “Sylva” and “Terra.” Not far 
off, is Deptford, Evelyn’s fine estate, through 
whose “glorious and impenetrable holly-hedge,” 
—as its owner styled it,—Peter the Great, when a 
tenant of the mansion, was accustomed to ride on 
awheelbarrow. The vinery of the Court contains 
the enormous black Hamburg vine, greatly overa 
hundred years old, the most remarkable one in 
the world. It is wonderful in its way; the infinite 
pains taken to support every cluster and branch 
make one think of the delicate engineering called 
into play for its preservation. Its costly clusters 
are wholly reserved for the royal table. 

The park and grounds of Hampton Court are 
more exquisitely kept than anything we have 
seen in England. To note the number of garden- 
ers employed, one might think that every par- 
terre and grass plot had its special keeper. Rus- 
kin somewhere says, that so conventional are the 
English people that not a fallen leaf must be 
suffered to lie upon the gravel, though the mas- 
ter of the house be lying dead within it. We 








KING WILLIAM'S ORANGE-TREES. 177 


were reminded of this bit of exaggeration as we 
walked over the turf, and wondered at its ex- 
ceeding beauty. 

“Stoop down,” said Julia, as I stood on one 
of the emerald circles; “stoop down and examine 
closely the quality of this wonderful turf. Look 
at the threads; are not the spires as delicate 
almost as the filaments of a spider’s web? And 
see the microscopic character of the clover-leaves; 
centuries of cultivation have reduced their size 
till they are almost infinitesimal.” 

I did as she bade me, and found the grass of 
the fineness and texture of velvet pile. 

As we returned to London, a bit of history that 
ybrought our own country vividly before us was 





recalled by hearing G say: “Here is the 
town of Brentford.” The name at once suggested 
the last meeting of the Indian Princess Poco- 
hontas with the Great Captain, John Smith. The 
Court was residing here when she was brought 
thither to be presented to the Queen; and it 
was on this occasion that she was unexpectedly 
brought face to face with the hero of her early 
romance, whom she had supposed to be dead. 
Her surprise and agitation were such as to con- 
firm the idea that she had really loved the hardy 


adventurer whose life she had saved. 
12 


THE QUAINTEST CITY IN ENGLAND. 


BoapDicEA, the intrepid queen of the ancient 
Britons, who so bravely opposed the Roman in~ 
vasion—in what a twilight of remote history 
does she seem to have flourished! And yet, here 
to-day, I stand upon the spot from which Sue- 
tonius, the Roman general, marched forth at the 
head of the famous Twentieth Legion, to conquer 
this Amazonian queen. 

I have just come in from a stroll along the 
walls of old Chester, the origin of whose very 
name marks it as one of the most ancient of the 
Roman cities founded by Julius Cesar. It was 
to this spot that Suetonius was sent that he might 
drive the ancient Britons into their Welsh fast- 
nesses. Antoninus mentions it as the camp of 
the ‘‘Legion of the Victorious” (Ces¢ri@), from 
whence we have the modern name Chester. 

We have just walked around the city, whose. 
entire circuit is bounded by the Roman wall, 
which was built when Suetonius first fortified 
his camp, and repaired by Marius a.p. 73. The 
under-stratum of the old wall gives positive in- 

(178) 





THE QUAINTEST CITY IN ENGLAND. 179 


dication of Roman workmanship; and upon it, 
in early Saxon times, a wall two or three feet 
higher was constructed. Running along this 
wall, its entire length, is a fine flagged pavement, 
to which you ascend by broad stone steps; 
and from every point, as we make the circuit 
of the city, we have fine views of the windings 
of the river Dee, and of the wide surrounding 
country. 

How antique are the associations about us! 
Yonder is the great field, called The Barrows, 
where the Roman soldiers were drilled; turning 
around we see, on a projecting rock, a figure of 
Minerva, dug up from the ancient city. Across 
the river Dee lies the seat of the Grosvenor fam- 
ily, descendants of the Danish Rollo, who in- 
vaded England in a.p. 876. Within sight is the 
anchorite cell, where, tradition says, Harold, the 
last of the Saxons, retreated after the battle of 
Hastings—not having been slain in battle, as the 
old chroniclers have it. I can hardly imagine 
anything more inspiring than the sights we have 
had to-day, from this Roman wall. 

The city within the walls, is the delight of all 
antiquarians. The houses that line the quaint 
streets, are gable-fronted, with their wooden 
beams exposed, curiously carved. - There are 


180 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


remains here, of King Alfred’s possession of the 
city, and of Edgar, the Saxon king, as well; and 
from the times of Edward of Carnarvon (which 
was the Welsh name of Chester), who was the 
first Prince of Wales, the eldest sons of Englisk 
monarchs have always borne the title of Earl of 
Chester. 

Since I came in from my stroll along the walls, 
I have been out on a little shopping tour, among 
the picturesque and curious “ Rows.” These are 
two lines of shops, the one on the ground-floor 
having an arcade built in front, the roof of which 
forms a passage-way in front of the shops above; 
this upper row of shops is reached by flights of 
stone steps at every street-crossing. The limits 
of the city are not extensive, owing to its being 
circumscribed by such compact walis. This may 
account for these double rows of shops which so 
utilize space. There is nothing else like them in 
England. One of the oldest things in Chester, is 
the Cathedral of St. Werburgh, which is built 
upon the site of a Roman temple of Apollo, and 
is now Chester Cathedral. It was built partially, 
in the eleventh century, but the towers we now 
see were not completed till some time about 
1240. Owing to the softness of the red sand- 
stone, of which the Cathedral was built, it has 





So ee Fe 








ae 








THE QUAINTEST CITY IN ENGLAND. I8I 


been necessary to recase much of it; but this 
does not destroy its air of antiquity. We at- 
tended service at four o’clock yesterday, in the 
choir, and heard Dean Howson read the evening 
lessons. It is hard for us Americans to become 
accustomed to the addition of the scarlet aca- 
demic hood to the white robes of the priests. 
There is something about it suggestive of the 
Roman Church; and we cannot understand why, 
if it is not strictly ecclesiastical, it should be worn 
at all the services in which the English clergy 
officiate. A cardinal is constantly suggested to 
our minds, when the clergyman at the lectern or 
the altar, turns his back to the congregation, and 
displays this long red pointed hood. It was a 
great pleasure to us (despite the crimson-lined 
hood) to hear Dean Howson, with whose “ Life 
of St. Paul” we in America are so familiar, read 
the services. The photograph of him, that has 
lain in my portfolio so long, is so perfect that 
his face seemed quite familiar tome. After the 
service was over, we examined at our leisure, 
under the guidance of the verger, the beautiful 
carvings of this choir, which are among the most 
exquisite in England. And how sorry we felt as 


’ 


we were shown the “clere-story,”’ along which 


are ranged the stalls where the poor nuns used 


182 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS, 


to sit in the old days, and get, through the deep 
carved lattice in front of them, such scraps of 
the service as might reach their ears—if, indeed, 
the voice of reader or preacher was ever distinct- 
ly audible at that height. 

I asked to be shown the stall where, as Canon 
of Chester, Charles Kingsley used to sit. We 
turned up some of these quaint, curious seats, to 
look at the carvings underneath. We found 
them for the most part grotesque, and provoca- 
tive of laughter. One of them—I think perhaps 
the very one on which Mr. Kingsley used to sit— 
had a scene apparently from the legend of “ Lit- 
tle Red Riding-Hood ”—showing that the story 
is a very old one—the savage jaws of the wolf 
being wide open, ready to snap up the frightened 
child. Nothing seems too absurd to be repre- 
sented in these carvings: a pig dancing, while a 
piper plays; an angry woman beating a boy; a 
monkey with a psalm-book in his hand. What 
could the old ecclesiastics have meant by allow- 
ing such wickedly suggestive things as I have 
sometimes seen under these cathedral-stall seats, 
to be introduced into a place of worship? Was 
it to symbolize the unworthy thoughts that 
passed through the minds of the people who 
came to worship? The monkey is a favorite 








THE QUAINTEST CITY IN ENGLAND. 183 


subject in these church ornamentations. We 
noticed more monkeys in the beautiful old 
Temple Church—alas! despoiled of its antique 
interest, by unlimited “restorations ”’—than any 
other form of ornamentation, Perhaps these old 
monks had some instinct of their origin, though 
they had no Darwin to tell them of it in those 
dark old days. 

In one of the streets here, there is a house with 
a carved beam in front, on which there is the in- 
scription, “God’s providence is mine inheritance 
—1652”; and to this day it is pointed out to visit- 
ors as God’s Providence House. It came by its 
name when the city was swept by the plague, be- 
cause it was almost the only house in which some 
of the inmates did not perish by the pestilence. 
We found an old chapel, in one of the narrow 
streets, where lies buried Matthew Henry, the 
commentator; and reverently as we might, we 
visited his grave, though not without Julia’s re- 
calling how often in her early days she had dozed 
over his prolixity. It would grieve his good old 
Christian heart, if he could know that the church 
in which he once preached, is now held by Uni- 
tarians. We found here, too, the grave of Par- 
nell, the poet, who is mainly remembered now, 
as the author of “The Hermit”; and, standing 


18 4 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


there, one could not refrain from quoting the 
familiar lines: 


‘Remote from men, with God he passed his days, 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.” 


I wonder, if ascending and descending so many 
long flights of stone steps here, can have any bad 
effect upon the muscles of the inhabitants. I 
certainly never have seen as many lame people— 
as many men, women, and children who walked 
with a limping or halting step—as I have seen 
to-day. Others of our party have remarked the 
same thing. Some one, speaking the other day 
of the wonderfully erect figures and fine muscular 
development of the women of Venice, was dis- 
posed to attribute it to the long flights of stairs 
which they had been going up and down since 
their childhood. The stone stairs of Chester 
must be at fault; for they have not had that 
effect. 

We quite delight in the wide corridors, and 
broad staircases, and lofty ceilings of this old 
Grosvenor Hotel. It was evidently built in the 
good old times when there was more room for 
England’s population, and it was not necessary 
to crowd so close together as now. 

This dear, quaint old city has got such a grip 


Sybian eM tans gh pa ria ss 









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Pe fee ee ee ee 


2 ee et ead 


- ah 
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THE QUAINTEST CITY IN ENGLAND. 18 5 


upon our hearts that we would like to linger 
here longer, and wander about the old cloisters 
of the Cathedral, and read the inscriptions on 
the flat gravestones in its pavements, and listen 
to the rich music of its chorister-boys, and hea1 
good Dean Howson read the evening lessons, 
and stroll upon the antique walls, and think of 
Suetonius and his jousts with Boadicea. 


IN THE JERUSALEM CHAMBER AND 
THEREABOUTS. 


Ir has been said that no one who has not read 
Dean Stanley’s monograph of Westminster Ab- 
bey, or who has never formed one of the party 
conducted through its intricate mazes by this 
prince of guides, and listened to his eloquent 
and vivid description of the aisles, the monu- 
ments, the chapels, the tombs, the entablatures, 
and the thousand historic memorials of Eng- 
land’s grand story—that no one who has not had 
this experience has ever known or seen the old 
gray pile at its best. 

Through some curious inattention, or culpable 
neglect, not one of our party had ever read the 
Dean’s exhaustive book; and as to his guidance 
through these cloisters so beloved of him—that 
was something to muse longingly and sadly over 
as we sought out the old niche (too small to be 
called a chapel), in which he had chosen to lie 
. down beside his dear Lady Augusta. With a 
little of the feeling that pilgrims have before a 


shrine, we stood at his grave one sunny day. 
(186) 








IN THE FERUSALEM CHAMBER. 18 7 


Under one of the lancet windows he is stretched, 
in his white ecclesiastical robes, with his hands 
folded as in prayer; the clear-cut face, so marked 
with intense intellectuality, and traced with lines 
of deep and scholarly thought, turned heaven- 
wards; the pointed slippers resting upon a lamb 
couchant. It gave a solemn emphasis to our wan- 
derings through the vast pile, as we walked out 
under the cloister arches, across the Dean’s Close, 
and passed the door leading into his private 
dwelling, to go from his grave to seek the Jeru- 
salem Chamber—one of the spots most sacred of 
all to him. 

This long, lofty apartment takes its name from 
the fact that it was panelled with cedar brought 
by some of the Crusaders from the neighborhood 
of Jerusalem. The Dean was the first one to 
discover the interposition of a flat ceiling which 
had been placed there, for what purpose, and 
when, no record thereof remained. This ceiling, 
so destructive of the fine proportions of the room, 
through his intervention was removed. He also 
placed, as his own slight memorial, the rich tiles 
round the ancient chimney-piece, which bear, in 
black-letter, the legend, “ Jerusalem which ts 
above ts free.” 

Shakespeare has made us know, even if history 


188 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


had not, that immediately before this fireplace, 
Henry the Fourth was laid, when carried from 
the chapel of Edward the Confessor, in a dying © 
condition, and there, breathed his last. As I 
stood upon the flagstone where his head had 
lain, and seemed to hear him say, 
“‘It hath been prophesy’d to me many years, 
I should not die but in Jerusalem, 


Which vainly I supposed the Holy Land ; 
But bear me to that chamber, there I’ll lye :” 


the date of his death, 1413, seemed brought 
quite near to me; and yet Columbus had not 
then been born! 

But the most pregnant association which Prot- 
estants have with this august chamber, is the 
fact, too well known to need announcement here, 
that within it sat for so long, the Westminster 
Assembly of divines summoned by the “Long 
Parliament.” It is redolent, therefore, of the 
Confession of Faith and the Shorter Catechism. 
There is a large painting between the windows, 
and opposite the chimney-piece, representing the 
scene so well known—the moment at which the 
divines pause, with solemn awe, over the question, © 
“What is God?” when the youngest of them was 
asked to kneel, and beseech direction for an an- 
swer. The whole chamber is adorned with stately 








IN THE FERUSALEM CHAMBER. 189 


paintings and busts. Through its centre runs 
a long green-baized trestle table, which seemed 
old enough to have been used by this ancient 
Assembly. The worthy successors of the trans- 
lators of King James’ Bible, had just closed their 
labors, and risen, a few days before, from their 
seats, Their pens and inkstands still occupied 
the table, and it required some little self-denial 
to keep me from asking from the guide (for a 
consideration) one of the quill pens lying there. 
We would have liked to linger here for an hour 
or two, and saturate ourselves with the specially 
Protestant associations of this memorable spot; 
but the successor of Dean Stanley came in, in 
his scholar’s black gown, evidently on some offi- 
cial business, so we felt it incumbent upon us to 
bow ourselves out. Dean Bradley is a small, 
meagre man, with shoulders that stoop, as if he 
had spent all his life bending over books—which, 
no doubt, he has. He has a most kindly face, 
and there was about his attenuated features the 
eager look of an enthusiast. 

The Jerusalem Chamber has but one door of en- 
trance, and that is through the Jericho Chamber— 
why so called, we did not find out. This room is 
also panelled with cedar-wood, and has its trestled 
table, and pens and ink in the centre, and is used 


190 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


as a conference-room, by the Dean and the Canons 
of the Abbey. The only picture in it, is one of 
the Greek patriarch, who some time since visited 
England. 

One who has read a hundred, more or less, of 
tourists’ descriptions of this ancient Abbey, and 
heard friends describe every aisle and chapel, 
may fancy that he has a very good idea of it— 
“His eyes make pictures while they’re shut”; 
but neither Coleridge’s pictures, nor one’s own, 
probably, bear the remotest similarity to the 
conceptions of what one has not actually seen. 
It certainly has been so with us here. 

As we entered the low door, next St. Marga- 
ret’s Chapel, at the foot of the nave, and were 
suddenly confronted with its vast proportions 
and length, what a rush of strange feeling came 
over me. The immense aisle was actually peo- 
pled with a white multitude, whose lifted hands 
and heaven-pointing fingers, gave one an idea of 
the resurrection morning, so thronged did it 
seem with sheeted forms. One does not get over 
this impression amid the crowds of statuary that 
everywhere, in transept and aisle and chapel, 
startle and confuse the eye. It is assuredly like 
reading history, with marble figures as its type, 
that one pores over these interminable vistas. 











44 
ae ie 





i 2 ge x. Sait E eee 
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IN THE FJERUSALEM CHAMBER. IgI 


“Come with me,” said a friend, who had been 
so often in Westminster Abbey as to have learned 
it by heart—“ come with me, and I will take you 
into nooks and corners that the ordinary tourist 
never dreams of.” He did so, and such delight- 
ful explorations as were vouchsafed me were 
something out of the beaten track. Among other 
spots, I found myself in a niched recess, which, 
on looking round me, I discovered was dedicated 
as the burial-place of the Boleyn family. “Ah!” 
I said, “I ought to find here, the tomb of Lord 
Hunsdon, Anne Boleyn’s brother, of whom I 
surely know something, inasmuch as our dear 
S 
get that she is one of his descendants. If she 





*s genealogical fervor never lets her for- 


were here, her first search would be for his mon- 
ument.”’ | 

So saying, I stepped back from reading the in- 
scription about Sir Thomas Boleyn, and stumbled 
in doing so, against a tomb behind me. I turned 
and read the name of Lord Hunsdon. 

“What would § 
I do?’ I said; and therewith proceeded to look 





not give to stand where 


for a scale of ancient marble which I might carry 
back to her, and let her have set about with pre- 
cious stones, to wear as a brooch on her breast! 
But not a scale would the old stone yield up; so 


192 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


I shall have to be content with assuring her that 
I have made a pilgrimage to her ancestor’s tomb, 
and gratify her Virginia pride with the knowl- 
edge of my homage thereat. 

As we turned away from these Boleyn monu- 
ments, we came upon a most curious piece of 
time-blackened sculpture. It was a baby’s cra- 
dle, almost of the hue of ebony, and had in ita 
little efigy just as black, tucked up in its blankets. 
From the inscription, we found it to be the coun- 
terfeit presentment of an infant child of James I., 
who died at the age of three days. What a nip- 
ped bud of royalty was this to have been em- 
balmed here for nearly three centuries! Fast- 
ened over the Jerceau, was a manuscript copy of 
verses, ‘‘ written by an American lady.” Wewere 
told that Miss Woolsey (“Susan Coolidge’) was 
their author: and they so commended themselves 
to Lady Augusta Stanley, that she had them 
placed over the cradle, with the request that they 
de not removed. 

As an American I found several things that 
touched my patriotic pride, in the rich old Ab- 
bey. One of the most conspicuous objects, as 
one walks up the nave toward the Poet’s Corner, 
and just at the point where a short aisle branches 
off, is the nobly placed bust of Longfellow. It 








IN THE JERUSALEM CHAMBER. 193 


stands so clearly out, in its white purity, from 
the dark stone background of the walls, that it 
can be seen the entire length of the nave, and 
has thus a prominence given it, which Lord Ma- 
caulay might sigh for; for his bust is so hidden 
behind Addison’s statue, that one has to make 
quite a défour to see it at all. Just afew feet around 
the corner from the Longfellow memorial, is the 
old blackened and battered tomb of Geoffrey 
Chaucer. In what close neighborhood, are their 
tablets here; and yet what a sweep of centuries 
_ separates them! A couple of wreaths of fresh 
flowers lay on our poet’s pedestal—the votive of- 
fering, no doubt, of some loving countrywoman. 

Near the end of one of the transepts, I found 
myself standing upon a broad gray marble slab, 
so much fresher in appearance than all around 
it, that I looked down to see whom it commem- 
orated, and read the following inscription: “ Be- 
neath this stone lay, for five months before his remcval 
to his native land, the body of the American philan- 
thropist, George Peabody.” 

As I turned aside from the transept, my eyes 
were raised to the fine stained-glass window, 
erected by Mr. Childs, of Philadelphia, in mem- 
ory of Isaac Watts and John Wesley; and these 
traces of American kinship and gracious Eng- 

13 


194 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS, 


lish courtesy, made me feel warmer as I walked 
through the chill aisles of the hoary minster. 

We were surprised to find dear old Wordsworth 
not in Poet’s Corner, where he certainly should 
have been placed. In the very obscurest chapel 
that we came across, we discovered a statue of 
him in a sitting posture, with nothing to keep 
him company there, but busts of Keble, Kingsley, 
and Maurice—grand company, no doubt, but so 
little of it, considering the excessive crowding 
one feels everywhere. 

Nothing can exceed the grotesqueness of some 
of the Abbey monuments. Before them, one can 
do nothing but give way to fits of laughter. The 
extraordinary lack of taste displayed in multi- 
tudes of others, is calculated to shake one’s faith in 
the average Briton’s sense of the fitness of things, 
and to deny him any true conception of har- 
monious beauty. The biggest pile of marble in 
the Abbey is the monument to General Wolfe, 
representing his death at Quebec. It is almost 
absurd in its details. 

One word about St. Margaret’s Church, one of 
the dependencies of Westminster, as old as, if 
not older than, the Abbey, and almost touching 
it. It is very rich in historic associations. We 
attended service here last Sunday, and heard 








IN THE FERUSALEM CHAMBER. 195 


Canon Farrar preach to a congregation of two 
thousand people, The church has little of the 
rich ornamentation of the minster. There is no 
stained glass save the great window over the 
altar, which has a curious history, having been 
buried two or three times to save it from de- 
struction during the various troubles in the 
realm. At the altar here Cromwell was married. 
On one side of the chancel is the grave of Mil- 
ton’s second wife. Here Cromwell’s mother is 
buried; and on the wall, above where we sat, was 
a brass tablet in memory of Sir Walter Raleigh. 
It was pleasant to sit and dream there, and have 
the morning sun stream through the stained glass 
of the great east window, just as it did on the 
heads of Raleigh and Milton and Cromwell three 
centuries ago. 


THE DORE GALLERY. 


AFTER the tourist has roamed over Continental 
galleries until the sight of a great canvas almost 
comes to be an object of weariness, he will prob- 
ably return to England with the feeling that it 
will be impossible to find there anything to move 
him as he has been moved in the Holy Land of 
art. He has dreamed away days and weeks, it 
may be, in the Vatican and other grand galleries 
of Rome; he has been saturated with beauty 
among the treasures of the Uffizzi and Pitti at Flor- 
ence; he has revelled over the riches of Munich; 
he has almost worshipped at the shrine of the 
Madonna in Dresden; he has bewildered himself 
trying to systematize the vast wealth of the 
Louvre,—what can the little green isle have to 
show him after all this? What are its National 
Gallery, its Royal Academy, its Kensington Mu- 
seum, or the art stores of its princely and ducal 
palaces compared with what he has seen? 

And yet to-day, after having made within the 
few past weeks this round of the galleries, I have 


been persuaded, half against my will, to see 
(196) 


a eee ee oe eee ee 





pe for re 





THE DORE GALLERY. 107 


a collection of paintings which has strangely 
moved me. 

“Tf you want to be lifted out of the rush of 
this nineteenth-century life,” said a friend to me 
the other day, “and be spellbound before one 
of the most marvellous pictures of the age, go 
to the Doré Gallery in Bond Street, and sit down 
before a canvas there that will move you, I ven- 
ture to say, more than Rubens’ great work at 
Antwerp, or—shall I dare to say it ?>—more than 
even Raphael’s ‘ Transfiguration.’ ” 

I resented any such deduction. 

*“Doré is wonderful as an illustrator of the 
conception of others, and fertile beyond all pree- 
edent; but art critics have taught us to distrust 
him as a colorist, and in some degree to deny 
him supreme power on canvas.” 

“ Nevertheless, go,” urged my friend, “and see 
what will become of all the rant of your critics 
after you have been subdued before his miracu- 
lous Christ.” 

Accordingly, our home party went to Bond 
Street this morning; and for hours of this bright 
day we have been lingering entranced over such 
creations as no French school has ever before 
produced—creations whose lofty simplicity, and 
stern grandeur, and realistic vividness have taken 
our very hearts. 


198 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


I had seen large engravings of Doré’s master- 
piece,—“ Christ Leaving the Preetorium,”—but 
they had conveyed to me no sense of the maj- 
esty of the painting. The canvas is an im- 
mense one, thirty feet by twenty, and is instinct 
throughout with the most passionate life and 
movement. Itcontains hundreds of figures (those 
in the foreground above life-size), and illustrates 
the marvellous skill which the artist possesséd 
in representing multitude and space. We have 
seen no canvas of Claude’s that breathes with a 
more palpable atmosphere. And yet, in this vast 
throng, there is not a face or figure that is not 
marked by its own individuality. 

The moment of action is, I believe, original in 
its conception. It represents Christ descending 
the broad marble staircase leading from the Pre- 
torium, just after His final condemnation by the 
Roman governor. This broad staircase occupies 
the centre of the picture, and down its shallow 
steps our Lord descends. The august figure mov- 
ing forward in its awful solitariness is the central 
point toward which every face in the multitude 
is directed, and which holds the eye of the spec- 
tator with a fascinated gaze. He is clothed, not 
in the dead white of linen, but in the softer-hued, 
undyed woolen toga. There is not an accessory 








THE DORE GALLERY. 199 


about Him to divert attention from the divine 
humanity of the straightforward-looking face. 
The arms are dropped on each side; there is no 
auriole about the head, or, if any, it is so faint as 
not to attract attention, There is a total avoid- 
ance of that meek beauty, that feminine auburn 
hair, that delicacy of complexion and feature, and 
that characterless softness, which mark all the 
heads of Christ in the pictures of the old mas- 
ters, not even excepting Raphael’s. 

On each side, separated only by the balustrades 
of the stairway, surge and seethe the shrieking, 
excited multitude, who cry: “Away with Him! 
away with Him! Crucify Him! crucify Him !”’— 
who clench their fists across the railing, and with 
demoniac rage fling upon Him their ribald revil- 
ings, and gloat over His condemnation, with faces 
of fiend-like vengeance; on the other side crowd 
the callous-hearted, indifferent Roman officials 
and soldiery, too much accustomed to the sight 
of cruelty, woe, and blood, to be in the least 
moved by the majesty of the innocent sufferer. 

It will be remembered that at the Feast of the 
Passover, almost every nationality of the then 
known world was accustomed to be represented; 
and consequently, we have here a fine field for 
the artist’s pencil—the proud Pharisee, the scowl- 


200 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


ing scribe, the howling Jewish populace, the re- 
fined Greek, the stately Persian, the Arab of the 
desert, the scoffing Roman, the gaping African, 
and the philosophic Egyptian. On these faces 
every possible passion is depicted—hate, vindic- 
tive wrath, exulting vengeance, stolid satisfac- 
tion, haughty indifference, scorn, vulgar curiosity, 
deprecation, cold wonder, and here and there, 
upon some startled female face, the yearning of 
a fathomless compassion. Between these two 
opposing throngs, moves the Christ, in the sub- 
lime dignity of His Godhood, with a majesty as 


calm as the unapproachable heavens overhead. © 


There is an infinite unconsciousness of the shriek- 


ing multitude around Him. Hesees nothing, He - 


hears nothing. He is alone between the eterni- 
ties! His unblenching eye is fixed upon the 
inexorable Justice that sits upon the everlast- 
ing throne. He seems to say, “I shall see 
of the travail of My soul, and shall be satis- 
fied.” The superhuman dignity, the unshaken 
serenity, the loftiness of purpose, the majestic ac- 
quiescence, the transcendent sorrow, of the Son 
of man, surely were never better portrayed by 
mortal pencil. The sense of separateness (the 
“treading of the wine-press alone”’), the miracle 
of that far-away gaze, the suggestion of awful 








THE DORE GALLERY. : 201 


solitariness, are inspirations. We felt as if we 
must veil our eyes, and shrink back from a sight 
of such sacred awfulness ! 

We have just been studying the cartoons of 
Raphael in the South Kensington Museum; but 
how conventional the flashily robed Christ of 
these pictures seems compared with this pathetic 
figure, draped in its stern robe of dim white! 

I know it is treason to all the canons of Art and 
to the traditions of the ancient schools to say it, 
but I will say, that in all our rounds of the Con- 
tinental galleries, I have never seen a representa- 
tion of our Lord that so subdued and awed me, 
and made me realize so fully His divine humanity. 

There may be faults of technique in this vast 
canvas, and to critical eyes, there doubtless are; 
but the central thought is so all-pervading and 
éxalted, that one is ashamed to search for de- 
fects. There is very apt to be, in all of Doré’s 
paintings, some excess of imagination which 
mars the general effect. In this picture, it is the 
malefactor, who drags the cross over the fore- 
ground of the canvas. Apart from the anachron- 
ism of introducing the cross here, it disturbs, 
with its cruel realism, the lofty spirituality of the 
divine sufferings. 

It is said that Doré spent two years of labor 


202 a HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


upon the figure of his Christ, and some seven or 
eight upon the whole picture. The history of 
the canvas is somewhat curious. To save it 
from destruction in its unfinished state, during 
the Franco-Prussian war, the whole canvas had 
to be buried. 

The picture which, next to this of the Prztori- 
um, commanded our most undivided attention 
to-day, was a canvas of the same size, the sub- 
ject being “Moses before Pharaoh, after the 
Death of the First-born.” It is a dark, rich, in- 
terior picture, conceived in the spirit of the most 
elaborate Egyptian orientalism. Its details are 
carried out very finely, and there is that grand 
sense of space, which Doré surely has the re- 
markable art of giving to his creations. The 
fearless figure of the great Hebrew leader, from 
the lower step of the throne, confronts with stern 
majesty, (strong because He feels the power of 
the God of Israel behind Him,) the sullen, angry, 
and yet quaking king. Moses stretches his hand 
toward Him, saying, ‘ Thou shalt see my face no 
more.” And one observes how Pharaoh quails be- 
fore the majesty of that eagle eye, although his 
proud courtiers around him are striving to buoy 
him up to a feeling of sovereign contempt. The 
spectator realizes that they are failing to do this 








THE DORE GALLERY. — 203 


and that the king is half spellbound in the pres- 
ence of the prophet. At the foot of the throne, 
agonized mothers press forward, holding aloft in 
their arms, with awful reproaches on their lips, 
their dead children. Between his anger and his 
fear, the irresolute king vacillates, and neither 
listens to his courtiers, nor succumbs before the 
majesty of the seer. 

The conception of the picture is certainly a 
powerful one, and we find nothing here that we 
would fain omit. It is characterized by a severe 
unity; and yet we have here, as in the canvas 
of the Pretorium, the extremes of passion, the 
defiant courtiers, the scared yet indignant king, 
the stern bravery of the prophet, the shrieking 
of the bereaved mothers, and the white stillness 
of the dead children. One feels a strange so- 
lemnity in the presence of a scene so vividly ren- 
dered. 

There is one other picture of the same colossal 
proportions as the two already mentioned; it is 
“Christ Entering into Jerusalem,” but the theme 
has been often treated, though probably never bet- 
ter than here. The canvas is full of light, move- 
ment, color, variety, and feeling. But there is 
not that unity of treatment which we find else- 
where in Doré’s best work. There are separate 


204 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


groups of marvellous beauty; but these detract 
somewhat from the general effect, inasmuch as 
they divide the interest with the central figure, 
the ineffably sorrowful Christ. The contrast of 
this lofty, mysterious sadness with the rejoicing 
faces around Him, is very striking and powerful. 
But we have not space here for further details. 
One other picture I may be allowed to speak 
of more specially, since it made a very positive 
impression upon us all. The subject is medizval, 
and gives evidence of Doré’s wonderful versatil- 
ity. The canvas is a moderate-sized one, and 
represents a vesper scene in a monastery chapel. 
The motif of the picture makes itself felt at once, 
and it is as strong a protest against the old mon- 
asticism of the Romish Church as any reformer’s 
sermon could well be. In the centre of perhaps 
a dozen monks, sits a youthful one, who has just 
assumed the final vows, having entered the con- 
vent, which he supposes is the retreat of only 
purity and peace. He is heart-sick of the wicked- 
ness of the world, and brings hither his longing 
aspirations, his holy enthusiasms, and his self-de- 
nying zeal, expecting to find truest help and sym- 
pathy, among the Brotherhood. For the first 
time, the now fully admitted novice takes his 
place among them, as one of the community. He 











THE DORE GALLERY. 205 


is suddenly confronted with a scene which dashes 
all his hopes to earth, and makes him aware that 
he has committed a terrible mistake which is to in- 
volve his whole life. On not a face about him is 
there a trace of reverence, or interest, or worship. 
One paunchy old monk has evidently been down 
to the abbot’s cellar, and is ready to tumble from 
his seat in drunken helplessness. The head of 
another has dropped upon his breast in stupid 
sleep. Another is stretching his arms, gaping 
wearily, his missal lying upon the floor beside 
him. Two or three are whispering together, with 
a wicked leer in their old eyes. One old fellow 
has pulled off his cowl, and is scratching, uncon- 
cernedly, his shaven crown. The only monk who 
seems to be somewhat intent upon the service, is 
a very aged one, doubled up in the weakness of 
senility, with his Psalter held all awry, in an ap- 
parently vain effort to make it out. In the midst 
of all this, with his hands clasped in a sort of 
paralyzed disappointment over his open service- 
book, the young neophyte sits, with a look of 
despair on his pale, pathetic face, on which is 
plainly written: “Is this the holy refuge I have 
sought? Are these to be my helpers heaven- 
ward? Am I to grovel among them till I 
die?” The pathos of the moment is irresistible, 


206 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


and one feels a tug at the heart, that compels 
one’s eyes to turn away. This picture is a fine 
illustration of the skill with which Doré freights 
his canvas with some single, central, burning 
thought. 

There is another medizval picture, a companion 
to this, which is as full of tender and pathetic 
beauty as this one is of bitter disappointment, 
“The Young Monk’s Dream.” It tells astory, as 
plainly as words could do, of love, loss, sorrow, 
and death. The young monk sits at the cathe- 
dral organ, his hands wandering dreamily over 
thekeys. Heis unconscious of the cowled monks 
and the kneeling congregation in the background. 
Grief has driven him hither to find alleviation for 
the burden of his sorrow, but he has not found 
it. The vision of the lost one comes ever be- 
tween him and the dreary rounds of his monastic 
life. He turns his pleading eyes toward the spec- 
tator, as if craving sympathy and help—unaware, 
the while, that a figure, so faintly defined that it 
seems but a shadowy mist, is leaning over his 
shoulder. I think it will be long before I forget 
the haunting sadness of those wide-open eyes. 

“The Dream of Pilate’s Wife” is a strong con- 
ception, which anywhere, save among these finer 
canvases, would arrest and hold the spectator. 











THE DORE GALLERY. 207 


I can understand now, as I could not under 
stand before, why Gustave Doré turned away 
with impatience from all the praises that were 
lavished upon him, on account of his superb illus- 
trations; and refused to be consoled, because of 
the wrong he. thought the critical world of Art 
had done him, in refusing to acknowledge that 
among modern masters, he was supreme. 


NUMBER FIFTY, WIMPOLE STREET. 


“THERE are four spots which I don’t like to 
leave London without having visited,” I said to 
the Professor; “and with such skies above us, 
how can we hope to accomplish anything to- 
day?” 

“It is one of your raw American ideas to mind 
weather,” was his rejoinder; “with a close car- 
riage, anything is possible; name your four 
places.” 

“T have always said,” was the reply, “that, 
whatever I did zof see in London, I would be 
sure to hunt out Cripplegate Church, where 
Milton lies buried; Christ’s Hospital, which 
Charles Lamb and Coleridge, and the rest of 
them, have made so familiar to us; the Charter 
House, where I may hear Colonel Newcome 
whisper ‘Adsum’; and last, but to me not least, 
No. 50 Wimpole Street, the house in which Elis- 
abeth Barrett lay for such long years an invalid, 
and out of whose door she passed as Mrs. Brown- 
ing.” 

“You shall be gratified, the weeping skies tc 

(208) 








NUMBER FIFTY, WIMPOLE STREET, 209 


the contrary notwithstanding.” So in a brief 
space we were seated behind protecting glass, 
and were whirling through London streets, defi- 
ant of the persistent drizzle. 

“Do you know where Cripplegate Church is?” 
asked Julia, of the gray-headed old coachman. 

“YT can find it,” he said. Though why we 
wanted to say our prayers in such an out-of-the- 
way place as Cripplegate Church seemed to 
puzzle him. It proved to be situated in one of 
the very narrowest of London streets, with a 
pavement in front of it, not three feet wide, 
From what I had read of it, I expected to find it 
in somewhat of a dilapidated condition, as it was 
one of the old churches that had escaped the 
great London fire. Instead of this, however, it 
turns out to be a fine restoration, and its living 
is said to be one of the best in London. MHap- 
pily the restoration has not been so thorough, as 
to do away with any of the old wood-work of 
the interior. The main change has been in the 
windows; in all of them, except the rose-window 
over the chancel, the stained glass has been re- 
newed. What a pity it seemed, that the soft 
harmonies of the old stained glass are giving 
way, in so many cathedrals and churches, to the 
more garish hues of our modern day! Those 

14 


210 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


old workers had a finer sense of color, than be- 

‘longs now to modern artisan or artist. We re- 
alized this, as we compared the oldest glass in 
York Minster with that of a later day. 

We sat down in Milton’s pew, at the entrance 
of which, under the flags of a broad nave, for a 
hundred and fifty years, the poet had lain buried. 
Somewhere in the early part of this century, his 
remains were removed to the end of one of the 
side aisles, and laid beside those of his father, 
that a suitable monument might be erected over 
both. A slab at the pew’s entrance announces 
this. As we sat there, looking up at the rose- 
window, which contains a choir of singing 
cherubs, we called to mind that before the poet’s 
eyes grew sightless, they must have rested many 
a time on these same angel faces. 

As we were passing down one of the side aisles, 
the guide stopped us to point out a handsome 
entablature on the wall, enriched with heavy 
carvings, saying, “That is in memory of a 
daughter of Shakespeare’s Lucy.” 

‘“‘Shakespeare’s Lucy? why, he never had a 
daughter of that name.” 

“QO! I mean Sir Thomas Lucy, who took 
Shakespeare up for deer-stealing.” 

The first thing that made me assuredly aware, 








NUMBER FIFTY, WIMPOLE STREET, 211 


two months ago, that I was driving through the 
streets of London, was seeing a “ Blue-Coat Boy” 
on the pavement, with his bare head, his flat 
cap being carried under his arm, as all Blue- 
Coat boys have carried them for four hundred 
years (they are too small to be worn on the head, 
and it would outrage all precedent to have them 
made big enough), his long indigo-colored coat, 
and his yellow breeches and stockings, and low 
shoes. So I was glad to pass from Cripplegate 
Church into the stately cloisters of Christ Church 
Hospital. Everybody knows the history of this 
old eleemosynary establishment, founded by the 
boy-king, Edward VI., with the status impressed 
upon it at the time of its endowment still un- 
changed. The clothing, the customs, the food,— 
indeed, everything connected with this immense 
foundation, remains as it was when Edward VI. 
gave it itsname. It is one of the most interest- 
ing features of old London, for it carries one 
back so thoroughly into the far past. The foun- 
dation is immensely rich; and it would be im- 
possible to estimate its value as an educational 
system for the poor boys of London. 

As we passed in, under the heavy, gray-stoned 
archway, we asked the white-headed porter, whe 
stood there fully uniformed and equipped, like 


212 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


a soldier on duty, what the number of scholars 
had been during the past year. He replied, 
“Eleven hundred and fifty-six ; the largest num- 
ber admitted at any one time.” He seemed very 
proud of being the protector of such a huge 
-monastic-looking pile, and spoke of it and of the 
boys, of the gardens, the playgrounds, and the 
quadrangles, with a sense of ownership that was 
refreshing to observe,—his identification with 
the establishment being so entire. It was vaca- 
tion, so we failed to see the boys; but we wan- 
dered under the long arcades, and peeped into 
the beautiful shrubberies, and took the gauge of 
the playgrounds, with a keen interest: for did 
we not hear the stutter of Charles Lamb behind 


us? and did we not-see the boy Coleridge curled’ 


up in a dusky corner of one of the quadrangles, 
with his dreamy eyes upon a dog-eared book? 
and did we not hear old Boyer growling out 
some command from one of the recitation doors 
beside us? Every inch of the ground was instinct 
with memories that form the warp and woof of 
so much of our later English literature, that we 
felt like remaining there for the rest of the day, 
and hunting out for ourselves names hacked upon 
the desks, and the pillars, and the doors, which 
have been familiar to us from childhood. But 





+ gag et 








NUMBER FIFTY, WIMPOLE STREET. 213 


we had promised ourselves four distinct impres- 
sions for the day, and so we might not linger. 

It was not long before we found ourselves 
walking about the quadrangles of the old Char- 
treuse Monastery, which was confiscated in the 
time of Henry VIII., and afterward became the 
home of the oldest ducal family in England, the 
Howards. Out of its gates Thomas Howard, 
Duke of Norfolk, passed to his execution; and 
we could not but think, as we looked up at the 
archway, how long the arm of the last prior of 
the monastery hung there, where it was nailed 
after his execution, by Henry VIII. Weall know 
how it became, through the gift of Thomas Sut- 
ton, a religious foundation for eighty-five poor 
gentlemen pensioners, and for forty-two unpro- 
vided-for London boys. The names of many 
eminent men who had been educated here, are 
too familiar to make it necessary to allude to 
them. 

The old cloisters have been very much altered 
since the times of the Howards and the Arundels; 
but some of the larger apartments still retain 
traces of former magnificence. The wet day 
kept the old pensioners within doors, so we did 
not meet with Colonel Newcome out on his daily 
constitutional. The whole place seemed even 


214 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


more alive with historic memories, and the dark 
nooks more haunted with the shadowy person- 
ages of the past, than Christ Hospital. 

“You are not often required,” I said to our old 


coachman, “to drive to Wimpole Street”; and 


why we should want to go to Wimpole Street he 
could not understand. ‘But Ican find any street 
in London,” he replied. We soon found that our 
Jehu must have been in the habit of showing 
tourists up this short, rather grim street; for in 


a little space, he had landed us at the house once 


occupied by Hallam, the historian. “ Here is the 


’ 


house,” he said, “ you want to see.” But we con- 
vinced him that we had no special interest in 
Middle-Aged Hallam, but that he must carry us 
a few doors higher up. 

London streets and London ‘houses form the 
grimmest combination, on a drizzly day in au- 
tumn, we verily think, that can be found in this 


world of ours. The soot goes up, and the fog 


comes down; and between them they form a 


black coating that seems to cover everything 
with a drapery of mourning. Almost all the 
London monuments look as if swathed in black 
crape. This street, in which the finest woman 
poet England (or perhaps the world) has ever 
produced, lived so long, has walls of houses rising 





£ 
ar 


” 


\ wi 
; Oh age Ret ee 
dad grees. a : “9 i. mi s -_ 


sta) 








NUMBER FIFTY, WIMPOLE STREET. 215 


to the height of four or five stories, which are as 
dark as a child’s school-slate, albeit it has an air 
of quite aristocratic propriety. 

The house in which Elisabeth Barrett lived, is 
as begrimed as the rest; and, as I looked up at 
the windows behind whose curtains she lay for so 
many years, a weary invalid, I marvelled how it 
were possible for even so subtle a spirit as hers, 
to free itself from the influence of its environ- 
ments. How did it seem within the compass of 
realization, that her “ Drama of Exile” could be 
wrought out where nothing could be seen but 
black opposing walls, with a bit of gray sky 
above them? What was here to recall “Lady > 
Geraldine’s Courtship,” with its wide breeziness, 
or the “Rhyme of the Duchess May,” with its 
passionate and fiery movement? 

One can conceive that “The Cry of the Chil- 
dren” might well have been written here, or 
“The Cry of the Human,” but never “The 
Vision of Poets.”’ The name of a home in which 
much of her childhood was spent, was Hope- 
End,—an ominous name for the home of any 
one, much less that of such a poet. But the in- 
fluence of this London residence could not have 
been even as cheering as the pine-surrounded 
one of her early years. 


216 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


She speaks, in some of her earlier letters to 
Richard Hengist Horne, the author of “ Orion,” 
of the comfort which the outline of the Malvern 
Hills was to her, in this isolated dwelling-place, 
and how often the billowy curves acted as spurs 
to her imagination; how she peopled them, and 
made them seem to herself, like the kingdom be- 
yond the mountains, of which she makes “ Ellie” 
dream, in “The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.” 
The house in which she lived at Torquay, fronted 
the bay, and had a boundless sea-view. It was 
from the windows of this home, that Elisabeth 
Barrett witnessed the drowning of her favorite 
brother, by the capsizing of his boat,—a sad 
catastrophe, which threw a singular shadow over 
her whole life. 

To come from the pure, saline breezes of the 
Devonshire coast, to the dim atmosphere of Lon- 
don, and the sombre sounds of its dark streets, 
must have seemed to the lark-like spirit some- 
thing akin to being immured within prison walls. 
And yet what a power genius has of transmuting 
everything into what it would have it be! What 
were London’s soot and grime to her, whose 
outspread wings of thought cleaved the pure 
empyrean ! | 

Under the small portico were placed benches, 





Si ae 





NUMBER FIFTY, WIMPOLE STREET. 217 


on which it did not require much fancy to see 
dear Mary Russell Mitford sitting to rest, after 
one of her hurried journeys up from Three-Mile- 
Cross, to spend a few hours with her most 
cherished friend,—waiting for the servant to 
open the door. One could almost hear her 
cheery voice crying out: “O, my love! if you 
would but let me carry you back with me to 
eat strawberries and cream in my garden at 
Three-Mile-Cross, it would give you a new in- 
sight into life.” 

An English friend of mine, in whose family 
Miss Mitford was a familiar intimate, tells me 
how she was accustomed to go with her mother, 
when a little girl, on visits to Three-Mile-Cross; 
and how, one day, as they had taken their seats 
in the well-known summer-house to eat straw- 
berries, Miss Mitford exclaimed: “O, my dear! 
I wish you had come an hour earlier! My pre- 
cious Elisabeth Barrett has only just gone from 
the very seat you are occupying. If you had but 
come in time to hear her delicious and inspiring 
talk!” 

As the door was flung open, we could imag- 
ine the good cousin, the rich John Kenyon, 
stepping briskly forth; and as we recalled the 
sympathetic face, we recalled, too, the fine act 


218 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


of generosity which placed ten thousand pounds 
in the hand of his frail cousin, at his death. And 
up and down these steps, and along this passage- 
way, it delighted us to think how the young 
Robert Browning had gone, with some “ Pome- 
granate” of love in his hand, for his “moon of 
Poets.” And it gave us an absolute sense of re- 
lief, to think that from this home, girded in by 
dark walls on either hand, he had borne her off, 
as his bride, to that land of sunshine under which 
her genius came to more perfect flower, than it 
ever did under the murky skies of England. 








IN CRIPPLEGATE CHURCH. 
A SONNET. 


I STAND with reverence at the altar-rail 
O’er which the soft rose-window sheds its dyes, 
And looking up, behold in pictured guise 
Its choir of singing cherubs—Heaven’s 4/7 Hail 
Upon each lip, and on each brow a trail 
Of golden hair ;—for here the Poet’s eyes 
Had rested, dreaming dreams of Paradise, 
As on yon seat he sat, ere yet the veil 
Of blindness had descended. 
Who shall say, 
That when the “during dark” had steeped his 
sight, | 
And on the ebon tablet flashed to view 
His Eden with its angels, mystic bright, 
There swept not his unconscious memory through, 


The quiring cherubs that I see to-day! 
(219) 


CONCLUSIONS ABOUT DEMOCRACY 
IN EUROPE. 


It is curious to observe how one’s life-long 
ideas of things which one has not seen, are up- 
set or modified by being brought face to face 
with them. The traditional pity for the down- 
trodden masses of Europe—“ the oppressed hu- 
manity” of the Old World—had been instilled 
into my mind as a religion, by a father whose 
reverence for American institutions and their 
founders, almost amounted to worship. Subse- 
quent experience has taught me that there was 
some sentiment mixed up with so much catholic 
pity. We find that the democracy of Europe at 
bottom, is not greatly different from our own. 

The farther we travelled, the more we were 
disposed to soften down our American preju- 
dices about the tyranny and injustice of the 
ruling classes in monarchical countries. Our 
sympathies were by no means so overpoweringly 
wrought upon as we had been taught to expect 
that they would be. 


Among the rural districts of England, we were 
(220) 








DEMOCRACY IN EUROPE, PAPA | 


constantly struck with the air of content upon 
the faces of the working classes. To be sure, we 
saw women weeding the turnip-patches, hoeing 
the potatoes and beets, and making hay side by 
side with the men. Never in all our lives in the 
South, did we see so many women at work in 
the fields; but they had no overburdened look; 
and as we watched their children often scamper- 
ing about them, it did not seem to us worth 
while to waste pity on them. 

In Scotland there was nothing among the lower 
classes that gave us any heart-wrench whatever. 
Plenty of poverty we did see, but it was that 
decent poverty for which one always has respect; 
and the clean and careful thrift of which we were 
constant witnesses, made us ashamed of the reck- 
less waste which characterizes the poorer peo- 
ple in our country. From the Duke of Devon- 
shire, of whose thrift we had some curious ex- 
perience at Chatsworth, down to the pretty 
laundry-maid near London, there seemed to be 
absolutely not a penny’s waste. We noticed 
this in the management of the first-class hotels. 
Our home in London was at one which is con- 
sidered among the best. Yet we noted there 
what would surprise, if it did not shock the 
habitués of our American hotels, viz.: the pass- 


222 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


ing around of the head - waiter, as stately as 
black broadcloth and immaculate linen could 
make him. with a silver fork which he thrust 
into every broken piece of bread and deposited 
on a silver tray; and when diplomatic pudding ap- 
peared on the menu, next day, we were not at a 
loss about its constituent parts. This was done 
at table d’hdte every evening. 

The only places where we met barefooted 
children, were in the old High Street, Edin- 
burgh; in Liverpool, and, of all places, in Hyde 
Park in the height of “the season.” On the 
Continent, the wooden saéot is so universal, that 
one never sees a child of the people without 
them. Raggedness is very uncommon. We 
have often observed more between Philadelphia 
and Baltimore, than during the whole of our 
foreign travel. 

No question about the poverty of the working 
classes. Their food and dress and lodging are 
of the very plainest; but they get more out of it 
than do our poor. There is never the slightest 
attempt at finery. I have seen infinitely more 
display during one Sunday among our Virginia 
negroes, than I ever saw among the menial class- 
es abroad. ; 

In France we were struck with the zzsouciant 





ee a A 


a ay Thee ae 


Lode 


tia ae 


pice 


ile tists 





DEMOCRACY IN EUROPE. 223 


contented look of the common people, and with 
the thorough zest which they threw into their 
enjoyments—a zest our lower classes never know. 
They did not seem the sort of people out of 
which communists could be made. Our favorite 
cab-driver said to us one day, “It is not fair that 
you should see only the fine parts of Paris—only 
good Paris. Let me drive you through the streets 
of dad Paris, and T’ll show you the communis- 
tic quarters.” Accordingly he drove us to the 
points he indicated, and we were obliged to re- 
mark the general air of decency and comfort that 
prevailed. The main thing that offended us, 
was the frequent recurrence of meat-shops for 
the selling of, horse-flesh. In the central por- 
tions of France, we were struck with the serene 
contentment of the men in blue blouses, and 
the bonnetless women, in short petticoats, who 
thronged the old streets of the towns and the 
paths of the provincial highways. 

In Germany the ruling hand is more obvious, 
and stolid faces were common. Our American- 
ism rose triumphant when we saw women and 
dogs yoked together pulling carts, heavy laden, 
through the streets. Along the Rhine there was 
poverty enough, but still it was not painful pov- 
erty, and seemed to have no element of wretched- 


224 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


ness mixed with it. In Holland and Belgium, 
the uncommon thrift and industry of the labor- 
ing classes give an air of brightness to every- 
thing, and we were hurt by no sign of suffering 
in either country. 

Switzerland has little besides its inheritance 
of sublimity and beauty; and as we travelled 
through its entire length, its pathetic poverty 
was a constant oppression. But the meagre 
possibilities of the country accounted for this. 
There is no tyranny to hold down its people; its 
government is as free as our own, and is admin- 
istered so economically that its taxes are not 
burdensome. Yet the poverty is piteous and 
appealing. The barest necessaries of life are all 
that the dwellers in the little Swiss hamlets ever 
hope for. Their faces wear a look of sad resig- 
nation, and the children seem never to laugh. 
Nowhere did we see women made such use of— 
they are not only wives and mothers, but beasts 
of burden like horses or donkeys. We saw them 
carrying great panniers of compost, strapped to 
their backs, up rocky steps cut in the mountain 
sides, to the ledges where vines were planted. 
We saw them cutting their little harvests on 
hillsides so steep, that they had to kneel and 
hold on by tufts of the grain with one hand, 








DEMOCRACY IN EUROPE. 225 


while they cut with the other; and then they 
piled their shocks on their backs, and carried 
them away. But this poverty can be predicated 
only of the rural population of Switzerland, not 
of the towns and cities, 

There were other features in the positions of 
the foreign democracy for which we were not 
prepared. With our American ideas we had sup- 
posed that no intrusion of it was ever allowed 
“betwixt the wind and the nobility” of the 
privileged classes. Our experience showed that 
we were mistaken. 

Spending a day in and about Windsor, when 
we presented ourselves at the entrance to the 
Castle with a number of other tourists, we found 
a score or so of the English commonalty wait- 
ing also to be admitted. They were evidently 
abroad for a day’s holiday; most of them were 
decently dressed, husbands with their wives, and 
some twelve or fifteen mites of humanity that 
never had been out in the sunshine before—the 
youngest babies we had ever seen out of doors! 
It was no marvel that these people should be 
permitted to see the inside of Windsor Castle, 
‘inasmuch as they have some proprietorship in it. 
But when they crowded, babies and all, into the 
Albert Memorial Chapel so sacred to the Queen, 

15 


226 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


where the beautiful cenotaph of the Prince Con- 
sort is placed, and we heard its splendid mosaic 
walls resound to the wails and pipings of this 


same squadron of infantry, we were amazed to 


see how good-naturedly the epauletted officials 
took it all, And when the same crowd pressed in 
through the doors of St. George’s Chapel, where 
English royalty is wedded and buried, we won- 
dered if such.a phalanx of screaming babyhood 
in our Capitol at Washington, would be smiled 
upon by the porters. It gave us an idea of free 
and equal rights in this monarchical land, to 
see a row of these poor mothers seat themselves 
on a bench just outside the small chapel in which 
the Queen has placed a beautiful recumbent 
figure of the Prince Imperial, and proceed with- 
out any show of offended modesty, to give the 
babies their dinner! 

In London, some friend suggested that the best 
way to see the nobility during The Season was to 
don our best toilets, take the finest liveried turn- 
out we could hire, and join the procession that 
on fine afternoons rolls up and down Rotten 
Row, and along the Serpentine through Hyde 
Park. We did this, and were rewarded, not only 
by seeing the English Peerage in all its glory, 
but the English Democracy as well, in all its 




















DEMOCRACY IN EUROPE. 227 


independence and freedom. Here were coronet- 
ed and crested carriages, with their powdered 
_ Jeemeses, in all the splendor of cocked hat, plush 
coat, and silver shoebuckles, guarding the proud 
dowagers sitting with noses in the air; and as close 
to them as the barriers would permit them to come, 
were also the pressing crowds of indigent poor 
from the very purlieus of London. Mounted 
guards, with their swords held before them as 
rigid as the Horse Guards at Somerset House, 
were on duty all along the drive; but never once 
did we see them chide the troublesome curiosity 
of the bareheaded and barefooted and dirty- 
faced children, who pressed against the barriers. 
We saw little creatures of ten dragging, in old 
champagne-baskets, lean babies; but no attempt 
was made to keep them from crowding forward 
to see all that was to be seen. In the great cir- 
cle of greensward which the drive borders, were 
scores of unkempt, barelegged boys and girls, 
rolling on the grass and playing at leap-frog, 
and disporting themselves as they pleased. And 
yet Hyde Park is the aristocratic core of aristo- 
cratic England ! 

On the Continent, we remarked the same wide 
margin for outdoor enjoyment allowed to the 
poorest people. Driving in the Bois de Boulogne 


5 A HANDFUL OF MONOGRAPHS. 


at Paris, we would come upon groups of the very 
poor, sitting upon the benches with their chil- 
dren all about them, eating their dinners, while © } 
a big basket near, contained the family mending. 
We observed this in the parks everywhere—in _ 
Brussels, in Antwerp, at The Hague, in Wies-. 
baden, and in most of the German cities. We 
doubt if Central Park ever has such scenes of 
democratic domesticity to show, as were con- 
stantly presented to our eyes in the parks of 
some of the most beautiful Continental capitals. 

We noticed, too, another custom differing from 
our American habit. Foreign servants are in all. 
respects better than ours; yet they are not kept 
as much at arm’s-length, no doubt because caste 
lines are so rigidly fixed among the old civiliza- 
tions, that there is no danger of their being over- 
stepped. At the pretty hotel where we stayed 
in Paris, we were accustomed to see some of the 
maids and garcons assemble nightly under a gas- 
light just outside the open glazed doors of one 
of the drawing-rooms, with knitting and papers, 
the guests passing in and out through the group. 
The porter and other officials seemed to consider 
it all right. We wondered if the Hotel Brunswick 
or Fifth Avenue would have permitted it. 

At Wiesbaden, a city of palatial hotels, we ob- 














DEMOCRACY IN EUROPE. 229 


served the same sort of freedom. We had not 
‘become so used to a Continental Sunday, that 
we did not feel a little shocked when some of 
the servants of our hotel gathered on a balcony, 
fronting our apartments, and occupied them- 
selves, the women with sewing, the young men 
with playing chess. 

Upon the whole, we returned to our own land 
with a heart considerably lightened as to the 
hardships and oppression of the laboring classes 
abroad. When we talked with our guide in Ed- 
inburgh, about the misery that we occasionally 
saw in the Closes and Wynds, he said: “These 
people are wretched just because they are wicked. 
If they would behave themselves, leave off drink, 
and do work which they can always get to do, 
there need not be any such suffering.” 

















5 








